


The Good, The Bad and The Weird

by DankSide_ofTheMoon



Category: Spies In Disguise (2019)
Genre: Angst, Attempt at Humor, Backstory, Blood and Violence, Buckle Up Because This is Going to be a Rollercoaster of Feels, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Gay Lance, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Unofficial Sequel, bisexual Killian
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:29:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 87,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24718303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DankSide_ofTheMoon/pseuds/DankSide_ofTheMoon
Summary: So - what happened after the attack on Washington?Hint: Divisions formed, backstories uncovered and hearts mended.
Relationships: Killian & Lance Sterling, Killian/Lance Sterling, Walter Beckett & Killian, Walter Beckett & Lance Sterling
Comments: 70
Kudos: 97





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cover Design by Iravaid - who is also on ao3! Please, check out her fic - https://archiveofourown.org/works/23871328   
> on the trials and tribulations of pre-Kyrgyzstan Killian and Lance; the story of how Tristan McFord was Sterling's partner before the whole fiasco.

Walter was exhausted - but definitely not complaining.

It had only been two weeks after the attack on Washington, and he still could not believe how quickly the agency made their repairs. The media was handled overnight and dozens of first-hand witnesses were tracked down and administered H.T.U.V amnesiacs. The reflecting pool and a two-mile radius around it was cleared under the guise of "annual maintenance". More than three-quarters of the structural damage - from the glass suspended above the Washington site to the titanium emergency barricades - were repaired within three days and fortified within a week. The thousand - give or take - M9 Assassins were recovered; with most sent to be repurposed at the agency’s newest division - OTIUM; of which Walter was now overseeing as chief technology officer, courtesy of Director Jenkins.

The Order of Technological Inventions for Unassailable Measures - was proudly named by Walter himself; as well as a subtle flex of his latin knowledge from some side courses he took in university. “Otium” translated meant peace and repose - the fundamentals of their goal in the division. It made sense. The teams of scientists and engineers that were assigned to Walter were all working on producing non-lethal agency gadgetry as a part of the new initiative in reforming damages and casualties in fieldwork. _Fighting fire with glitter_ \- as he liked to think of it.

It was quite a hit too; as proven by the influx in recent days of technicians from other divisions filing to transfer into OTIUM. To say the least, Walter was drowning in paperwork and legalities beyond managing engineering projects - to a point where Lance had referred an assistant to him. And so Walter was saved eventually by a petite, sweatered lady with brownish hair, sharp eyes, an angel’s smile and a nametag that read _Sharon Mercier._ It was natural that she became more an aunt than assistant to Walter; bringing in batches of home-baked cookies for him once a week and possessing a seemingly endless supply of good-humor. Soon enough Sharon turned to “Chère” around the offices in reference to her parisienne background and easy warmth; though no one knew it as well as Walter.

With much credit to Chère, Walter eventually traversed his way through the paperwork and formal documentations in setting up the division. A week later, he was finally at the helm of his ship - managing the team’s technological progress through approving prototypes, checking blueprints of multiple projects along with organizing and developing new ones to come. Inflatable hugs, serious string, and the first chain of multi-ink pens were rolling off the assembly line and making their way into the pockets of agents. It was truly a dream come true - an opportunity of a lifetime that had Walter labouring tirelessly for days in fear of it all slipping away the second he left his lab.

The week passed by in a flurry and scurry of managerial duties. It was now Friday and nearly 9:30 in the evening as Walter prepared to pack up for the weekend; shuffling around manuscripts and tinkering with designs for a new invention.

He called it the Pokécuffs - a remote set of handcuffs stored in a pokéball-shaped compartment that would, once tossed towards an aggressor, spring open and power themselves into the air before locating and detaining their target. The technology was drone-based, and so Walter had taken apart a M9 Assassin prior; its mechanical dissection strewn across his desk; slowly being configured into hopefully what would become another OTIUM success.

But it was getting late, and the offices were gradually emptying. Even Chère, who usually waited for Walter, had left an hour ago. And as Walter did not have Lovey accompanying him to work today due to a scheduled board meeting, he was beginning to feel a little anxious at the stifling silence and the unsaturated blue of the overhead lights that made the lab office he occupied a lot sharper on the edges. It didn’t help that he hadn’t gotten to the work on the optical sensors for the Pokécuffs yet - and so the cold, metallic carcass of the M9 Assassin was still in possession of its “eye”; which stared out at him as if waiting for him to turn away. 

With these thoughts in mind, Walter began to shovel his notes and tools into his backpack with increasing speed. The clink of metal and shuffle of papers echoed around the room and grated his nerves. Ignoring the stiffness in his shoulders from sitting motionless for the better part of the evening as he heaved the pack on his back, Walter made his way to the door, his anxiety rearing as he dimmed the lights before swinging the door open for his passage into the hallway. 

But when Walter step through the threshold, a yelp of terror was ripped from his throat at the figure standing before him - back to the light of the hallway and casting a shadow across his path. Walter tripped over himself, scrambling backwards as the figure raised both hands in a gesture of peace.

“Woah! Hey - Walter - it’s just me!” a feminine voice cried out and reached for the light switch in the room. The fluorescents beamed and identified the figure before him as Marcy; eyes wide in alarm.

“Are you alright? Did I scare you?” she asked softly, paired with a small chuckle and a hand to Walter; who was still white as a ghost. He blinked and let out a sigh of great relief as she helped pull him up from the tiles. 

“Marcy! Well, y-yes - of course,” he stammered, running a hand through soft curls: “Wait, what are you doing here so late? Shouldn’t you be off-duty by now?”

“Something came up. But never mind that. I have to talk to you,” she shrugged. Walter suddenly noted that she was rubbing the back of her neck - a gesture he was familiar with as a very Marcy-esque expression of discomfort.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. 

Marcy let out a huff of air, and dropped her hand to her side before fixing her eyes on Walter.

“It’s Killian, actually,” she said, and before Walter could let loose a clip of questions, she continued quickly: “I suppose Joyless has talked to you about...what you did?”

Walter stared at her blankly for a moment. Between the glare of the room assaulting his eyes and the blood pounding at the back of his head heralding an oncoming migraine, he was having trouble connecting the dots. And from the exasperation on the face of the agent before him, Walter was sure that she could tell.

“What?” he managed out, and Marcy shot him a bewildered look. And then it clicked. 

_Oh. That._

Merely a few days after the drone event, word had gotten around that the odd little engineer had saved the criminal mastermind with his odd little inventions. The Director had called him to sit in not long after; with some questions of _why_ (“I dunno. It was the right thing to do.”) and _how_ ("The inflatable hug! Would you like to see it? I designed it myself! It's really a game-changer I think-"). Walter remembered little of the interaction; distracted by being on a lie detector for the first time ever. Nevertheless, satisfied with his responses and moved by his convictions, Joyless had given Walter express permission to deploy OTIUM and woven new codes into the agency’s agenda. A few more meetings with H.T.U.V’s executive board of directors across the world had occurred as well; though Walter wasn’t so involved with that as much as Lance; who backed his position at every turn while he mainly worked to take OTIUM off the ground.

But that didn’t explain why Marcy was still looking at him as if he just drank the cure for cancer. She sighed heavily again.

“Look; I’m not sure if you’re up for this but we don’t really know who else to ask. So I’ll cut to the chase.” She took a deep breath, and seemed satisfied that Walter had come back from disorientation: “We need you to build a new arm for Killian. That is, after we've disabled the one he had.”

“A new arm…” he repeated, lips pursing and mind already running “...for Killian. Huh. Yeah - sure! Why not? I can do that.”

“It has to be completely harmless; just a prosthetic to fulfill the functions of any other human arm. Absolutely no weaponizable features whatsoever. Do you understand?” Marcy listed out. Walter nodded as she spoke. “Joyless is firm on this - as is the Detainment Division.”

Walter nodded, repressing a yawn: “Got it. Don’t worry. It’ll be as harmless as a Beanie Baby.”

Marcy’s lips curled into a stern frown as her brows furrowed at his words: words clearly meant to disarm and dismiss. Her hand moved to rest on her hips sharply.

“Please take this seriously, Walter. In fact, you might want to take a look at Killian’s physical eval and skill sets on file beforehand. And I’ll tell you this - don’t cut corners with this guy. He’s got a background in mechanical and electrical engineering and dismantled enough web servers and overwritten more international organizations than you are old-”

“Killian’s overwritten twenty organizations?” Walter choked out.

“Twenty-five; as far as we know,” Marcy gritted out: “Look - my point is; don’t underestimate him. Keep the prosthetic as remote as possible, as _mechanical_ as possible. Don’t give him anything to hack or take apart - no engines, no OS; not even an uncovered piston - or I promise you whatever happens will make being torn apart by M9 Assassins look like a trip to the spa.”

Walter gulped, his stomach suddenly rolling. The migraine had lifted from him like morning dew in the sun; replaced by the same sandpaper-in-the-throat-fear he hadn’t felt for a week and hadn’t missed at all.

“Alright. Anything else?”

Marcy bit her lip for a moment, before speaking up in a haste as if she would forget; or desperately wanted this conversation to be over. It was late, after all. 

“Yes, actually - just one more thing; Detainment wants you to do a full sweep of his cybernetic augmentations. We know he has them. The holograms he used to frame Lance, for one - but if there's any other implants he's got, he sure as hell wouldn't reveal them now. Do your truth-serum thing...Maybe a scan? I don’t know. This is crucial. Last thing we want is to transfer a ticking time bomb from the agency."

Marcy tried to let her tone fall on a lighter side at the end; feeling a little bad that she had captured Walter's attention with fear more than anything. But if it helped, Walter sure didn't let on.

"Hold on! You're transferring him? To where?"

"Maximum security; site 84 in Nome, Alaska. You've got two weeks to put this arm together - and then he's off the grid, kid."

Walter pinched the bridge of his nose before nodding, wincing at the creak of his neck.

"Sure, Marcy. Yeah...Okay. Two weeks. I could handle this. Yeah."

Marcy looked at him perhaps a little softer than usual before placing a warm hand on his sweater, placating him with a chocolate-melting smile.

"Thanks, Walter. You're really a lifesaver. Go home and get some rest, now."

Walter grinned at the double entendre and sighed at her retreating figure: "Okay - 'night Marcy." 

After he heard her footsteps echo down the hall, Walter deemed it safe to let himself slide to the floor with a cathartic groan; drained of all energy and hoping that the next two weeks would be less "fowl" than the last.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Walter needs a stack of papers, Lance needs a drink and Killian needs a friend.

Lance Sterling wasn’t a time-waster by any means - far from it. 

Walter had called him into the newly furnished space in the west wing of the agency. OTIUM now held a space furthest below the Washington reflecting pool except for the temporary holding cells of the agency’s greatest TFTs (Threats For Transfers). Its linoleum floors stretched across a warehouse-sized space with ceilings high as a basketball stadium. Rows of lights illuminated the expanse of equipment, the bustle of people in navy and white lab coats as well as workbenches. Rows of storage racks and machinery made up common spaces of experiment and resources between desks littered with papers filled with calculations, glitter, glue, and mechanical parts. In this wide expanse, Walter’s office was situated in the northwest end of the space; a transparent room suspended on metallic railings and stairs that curled their way up to a lodge-like landing. Paired with the stilts and the seclusion, Lance felt as if Walter was working in a glass nest. 

He had ascended the steps with unease; wondering why his younger associate couldn’t have just spoken to him about this over the phone. Curiosity got hold of him anyway and he arrived, now standing in Walter’s pigeon-postered space with Lovey eyeing him from atop her perch most curiously. 

Walter had jumped up upon his arrival and rushed forward to greet him before extending the pleasantries for a time. He paid him no heed when Lance noted that this better be urgent for him to shoulder off pursuing a case of arson for the day. As an agent, Lance was a man of purpose and destination so, needless to say, the concept of doing things in ways other than taking the path of least resistance was foreign to him, but he thought it really couldn’t be any worse than whatever tech mumbo-jumbo Walter was spewing at him now.

“...The most advanced prosthetics we have now rely on neural osseointegration, Lance! That must be the basis for his design; muscle binding interfaces...Though I’m still a little unsure of how it’s powered. Maybe atmospheric energy - channeled through the M9 Assassins? Or perhaps it's a little more sophisticated than that…”

“Uh-huh, uh-huh,” Lance hummed, watching Walter pacing before him; every other step punctuated by a light bounce. He couldn’t help but chime in; failing to keep the boredom from his voice as he watched the seconds tick away from the clock behind the kid: “So, let me get this straight. Director has ordered you to give Killian a new arm - probably one with less of a murder-everyone-in-sight feel to it. You agreed. Now, what does that have to do with me?” 

Walter froze and looked up at Lance with curious eyes; as if it couldn’t be more obvious. His hands were tugging at his hoodie strings in thought. The scientist took a deep breath.

“Right - well, I kinda need two things to make this work,” Walter drawled, paused, then hissed out in one breath: “I need his files - which, I know, I know - require level 9 access and above. Annnnd….I need the arm that he’s using now. Or was using. When-you know-The mechanical claw. It’ll be easier to disarm and refine parts of it into a safer prosthetic than make an entirely new one.”

Lance blinked at him, shaking his head.

“I can get you the claw - sure. But forget about the files, kid. You’ll have to ask Joyless herself. Field agents are strictly forbidden from touching those; matter of national security and such. They don’t let anyone hold both books and bayonets here.”

Walter’s brows furrowed as his breathing came out shorter, laced with frustration: “I did ask her! Joyless told me she was too busy solidifying some larger platform.. and to ask you!”

Lance had to hold back a snort: “Oh please? She’s busy? The platform was my idea…”

The confusion on Walter’s face would have made him laugh at any other time. Now, he only sighed:

“Alright - don’t get all mushy-gushy on me but after seeing you kick it off with OTIUM, I wanted to back you on the board-level; bring the agency onto your wavelength, internationally, you know.” Lance cleared his throat, silently cursing whoever it was that managed the ventilations around this wing of the agency ( _when did it get so damn stuffy in here?_ ). 

“So I made a couple of calls to some of the major global H.T.U.V directors; those that weighed in the most at establishing new programs and who had a say for worldwide changes in the agency’s agenda. Joyless and I proposed CROP last Thursday; it stands for the Criminal Redemption and Overhaul Program. I didn’t want to get your hopes up too soon or anything about the program passing the rounds but it’s making progress and taking on votes. If we succeed in passing it in the next two weeks, a lot of good things could happen for detainees; second chances and stuff.”

Walter’s face was now three shades away from freshly steamed lobster. Before Lance could react, a pair of arms had wrapped his torso in a hug that made him plant his feet on instinct. 

“I knew you’d come around!” was the muffled reply against his suit. Eventually, Walter let him go and stepped back - a beaming smile tattooed on his face.

“Sure, buddy,” Lance provided as nonchalantly as possible after the friendly assault - yet couldn’t help but let out a grin of his own. Lance ran a hand through his short, black curls - his mind chasing after the train of thought that was escaping him: “Where was I? Oh...Right. Yeah… I don’t know why good ol’ Joyless referred you to me for the files. She must have known that agents weren’t allowed to glance at them; no matter their level. Sorry, Walter.”

Walter stilled, worry etching into his brows, his smile fading: “Are you sure? Couldn’t you, I don’t know, give those guys in level 9 an autograph? Drop your name a little?”

“What? Walter! Hell - why’re you so after some papers on Robo-Hand anyway? I sure don’t remember you asking for my biography when you turned me into a pigeon,” Lance reprimanded. Walter had begun to pace again.

“Biodynamic concealment is a whole different deal than biomedical engineering and prosthetics,” Walter spoke, his voice rising and pitching like a boat in the storm; drawing the attention of a few scientists on the platform beyond his glass office and below the landing: “I can’t risk making an arm or tweaking the prosthetic he has with no knowledge of his blood type, bone density, past injuries, BMI or measurements in general and the only way to figure that out is to reconduct medical tests or find his file. Truth be told, I don’t have time for tests. And I’m sure Killian would rather attempt murder again than help me along - so getting the files - and that arm - is the only way. It's bad enough Marcy wouldn't even let me see him for a checkup. So I need both. Not one or the other. Both."

Lance listened patiently even as Walter’s pacing slowed, freezing and looking up with a pause after every sentence for emphasis. He suddenly stopped and fixed Lance with a pair of eyes too honest for his own good.

“I can’t do it without the file, Lance. I can’t risk it. C’mon. Please?.”

Lance stared at him, unsure how to feel towards the young scientist - angry at his persistence? Or bashful at his kindness; to go so far as put so much effort in for a man who had tried to take his life more than once? He knew that he could never trust some of Walter’s subjects of compassion, but damn it all if he didn’t trust Walter. So with a heavy sigh, Lance folded just once.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

* * *

Failure of anything usually means a much-needed pivot toward success, Killian had thought prior to when they fished him from the north sea - saved by a _bubble_ of all things. He hung onto that notion stoically even as he was tossed into the back of an H.T.U.V helicopter, arms bound to a seat not far behind the cockpit, then blindfolded upon arrival at a landing pad and driven discreetly to what he assumed would be the agency’s holding cells. The belief that failure is just failure was for - well, failures. At least that’s what Killian had thought as the slight heel on his black, leather wingtips echoed his footsteps through the corridors. But now? He wasn’t so sure.

Killian endured the pushes and prods of the agency’s handlers as they escorted him off the van’s rear, through various doors; some of which were elevators - always in descent. Judging from the footsteps and voices around him; there had been six people in the van. Flanking him now, however - were around fifteen. There were two hands on his left and right bicep - so that accounted for two men - while he could differentiate another hand periodically pushing between his shoulder blades whenever they made a turn. Killian reckoned that was the head of the operation; from his proximity to being the only one that was unafraid to speak - periodically barking orders to unlock the doors or stand down once in a while. Killian had let him have his fun; that is until they had reached a flight of stairs.

He had frozen as soon as the man behind him pressed a hand on his shoulder and grunted out: “Stairs.” His sudden immobilization caused the man to bump into him with a most angry curse. Killian held back a smile at that. But enough was enough. 

“Absolutely not.” Killian had drawn out. He could practically feel the glare of the man burning into the back of his neck. A moment of uncertainty lingered in the stairwell before he felt a pair of hands roughly yank the blindfold off, throwing it to the floor with a dull _plop_.

The sudden change in lighting made Killian blink rapidly as his left eye whirred; automatically adjusting optical settings. When the room focused, he found himself surrounded by one, two, three...eight men. He glanced down the staircase and saw the other seven making a single file at the bottom - looking up at him expectantly.

“Move,” the head of the procession growled from behind him. Killian didn't bother tossing a look back to see the commander of this little parade. Instead, he descended the stairs - refusing to greet the gazes on him with his own.

Killian figured they found it pointless to place the blindfold back now that he had reached the bottom of the steps; nor would it do them any good. In the time it took to blink, Killian had silently filed fourteen of his captor’s faces with his left eye - running an ultraviolet light scan that preceded their notice. As he was led into a bright though windowless hallway far beneath the ground - their features were being finalized and added to an identity module at the back of his head. As for the one that spoke, he had already begun to remotely toggle the recording with a comm system implanted on the inside of his jaw.

It didn’t take long for them to reach the cell at the end of the concrete hallway. Killian glimpsed its concrete walls spray-painted white with a panel of metal reinforcing the middle chunk; wrapping its way around the room like an ugly, titanium ribbon. When his cuffs were unlocked and himself pushed roughly into the space, the first thing Killian noticed was the ceiling - which stood only three feet above his head. The rest of the space behind him resembled a typical jail cell; a cot, canteen with minimal toiletries and chair stood simply in the barren space. A round mirror hung on the wall above the head of the cot - towards the right side of the area. The entire room afforded around 11 by 12 feet; a standard bedroom-size space housed in concrete. But it was the lack of color that irked him. Saved for the tan sheets on the otherwise barren cot, everything was white and silver like the inside of a CPU. 

The Inconel door slammed shut behind him with a heavy drop of a bolt, and what Killian noted as a turning of a vault-like handle, before a brief moment of silence (5.761 seconds) he supposed as the time it took for the man behind him to punch in a numerical code on the keypad he saw near the door. There was no sound to the buttons of the keys - for reasons of security; Killian noted duly in irritation.

The moment passed and a small piece of the metal in the door slid open. It revealed a pair of sharp hazel eyes level with his own; lined with light brown brows that he did not recognize. The voice he did though.

“You get three meals a day. Annoy us and it’ll be down to two,” the man had spoken with the smallest Slavic lilt to his words that indicated third or fourth generation, Killian found. “Any attempt at escape and the restraints will be replaced. We’ve got thermals and electromagnetic interference transmitters embedded in this room. So don’t even think about it.”

“What do I call you?” Killian interrupted. It’s never too late to update a hit list.

“Call me anything you want. You’ll be transferred to a different maximum-security facility across the world in three weeks.” the man scoffed.

Before Killian could ask him anything else, the man had turned and stalked away after shutting the panel in place; his steps clicking across the concrete.

Killian found that this was the most the man had said from arrest to incarceration. But more importantly, it was what he said that caught his attention. Three weeks was his deadline for escape; in which case, there was the primary problem of - not the thermals - but the transmitters. It became evident that the faces and voices he’s recorded are useless to him unless Killian could upload them by distinct radio frequencies to a private network that housed a copy of the agency database from when he had it. That had changed; if interference transmitters were on-site to encode or decode said frequencies, and he couldn’t hope to try for risk of detection and disablement.

Speaking of, he was still rather surprised that they hadn’t yet removed his current mechanical appendage. Though it’s likely they didn’t know how; and even more likely that they didn’t find it necessary. After all, between Walter’s hacking and the drone he took to the face, Killian was sure the circuitry had melted or snapped some way or other; with most definitely the programs he installed for cybernetic attacks shoved offline; thus, his weapons system must follow suit. And as the cherry atop this shit sundae, his holographic renderer was glitched to hell.

But it wasn’t all lost. His prosthetic still maintained its motor skills; by which Killian lavished in terrifying the guards bringing and retrieving his meals. Dragging his talons down the length of the door to elicit a demonically metallic screech that bounced down hallway, it was a feast for the soul to see those little agency-clad suckers work their throats in dry gulp after dry gulp; scurrying away like hamsters in a ball being batted by a cat; even if Killian knew that he was the one in the ball - and they were the cat. 

But power to him was an illusion. Act powerful and you are powerful. Nobody ever got anywhere by letting others walk all over them. So Killian had spent most of the first week planning, working out, attempting to fix the malfunctioning hologram renderer, and avoiding the mirror. 

It was a painstaking job - operating on oneself surgically without making surgical incisions of any kind. He often sat on the cot; locating the fused-out wires under skin, muscle, and tendon and tying them together as gingerly as possible by pressing them together and activating the pressure plate to send a surge of energy up that soldered the lines. It wasn’t that he was afraid of experiencing the pain should he start cutting away at his flesh for ease of access (as one of the advantages of having your face burned off is knowing that all other hurt is minuscule to having your face burned off). It was more the lack of disinfectants and surgical tools. Killian found the cell clean enough but even he didn’t dare risk the agony of infection; knowing that it would take - maximum - two hours if he operated invasively - but two days to die.

So it was that he had to content himself with working at a sloth’s speed. Nevertheless, a plus to the cell was that they never turned off the glaring, fluorescent strips of light running along the ceiling. Here, there was no distinction of time other than his internal clock bidding him to stop and rest every eighteen hours. Thus, Killian could operate at his own schedule. Not that it made the work any faster or less painful; Numerous times accidentally pressing two wires in the wrong orientation or without enough force that, in activating the pressure plate, sent a few volts careening through himself and _oh did_ _that hurt_ \- like being stabbed with a million needles. One of those times had him bite the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted blood. But none of this is to say that it wasn’t worth it when his hologram finally sputtered to life at the end of the week.

Killian gave himself approximately ten seconds to admire his handiwork in the mirror; testing the expressions and sighing with satisfaction at the lack of delays and glitches. Even as he turned, moved his hand to provide different lighting and pressed his right digits to tap on the silicon plates covering his cheekbones, Killian noted with pride at how the nanodermic technology responded seamlessly to the stimuli; simulating shadows and even fluctuating with the illusion of skin being pressed into or hair strands fluttered at his touch. He smiled and tapped the pressure plate twice more - watching the plutonium-powered hologram crack and switch beautifully in the mirror; landing on unscarred visage.

Running through his portable access memory again, Killian was surprised to find that the facial reconstruction data he had collected for Sterling had been deleted in the reset; in that his hologram was only able to switch on and off. Not that he was upset about it; especially when Killian knew the projected facial reconstruction mechanism in his left eye still worked. 

In fact, Killian was thankful for whatever component deleted Sterling’s face as he really didn’t feel like strangling himself every time he looked at the mirror. He didn’t need to be reminded of what the Agent that ruined his life looked like to kill him the next time they meet, anyway. He’ll remember those thick, haughty brows, statuesque nose, impeccable mocha skin and goatee so sharp it looks as if it’s been drawn on with sharpie-

_Wait? Wha-? WHAT? Why am I thinking of Sterling as-? Why am I… Just...What?!_

Killian couldn’t suppress his scowl and huffed out a frustrated half-groan. Reverting back to his scarred features, he hardly noticed that he had stood up and had begun to curl and uncurl his metallic talons while spinning the palm disk in whirs of distress. It didn’t help though as Killian felt his sanity slipping from him upon reflecting at what had just flickered through his mind. He must be _really_ tired… and maybe a little lonely. Aside from the agency’s solitary confinement protocol making a total mockery of the Geneva Conventions (yeah, yeah… He’s read it. You can’t break the law if you don’t know it.) - Killian hasn’t had a relationship for… a decade? Two? He couldn’t even remember the last time he slept with someone, nor which gender that someone was. It must have been before-

“Hey! Stop that - would you?!” a bang on the door broke through his reverie.

Killian blinked and realized that he had been dragging a steel hand along the cell’s concrete walls as he walked; trailing it behind him in a dreadful symphony of flaking paint and shredded construction. Sighing, Killian dropped his hand to his side before sitting back down on the cot. 

It didn’t take long for him to feel the temptations of sleep. Though the sorry excuse for a bed was a blanket-less metal frame that creaked under a fly’s weight, supporting a plastic mattress with the brown sheet as its one luxury - Killian found it as fulfilling as a waterbed in a five-star hotel, right about now. Pressing a sensor near his temple, he felt his left side go limp and closed his right eye. Exhausted beyond measure, Killian felt his consciousness sedated for a time; dreaming of pigeons and tuxedos. 

* * *

Lance’s phone buzzed the moment he dropped off a binder of Killian-related files at Walter’s office. One look at the caller ID and he wanted to burst into flames right there. 

Igor Bolshintsov - corporal head of the Detainment Division. Of course. It was difficult to find anyone as unlikeable as that brute, thought Lance. Even _Walter_ avoided him in distaste - and that boy could befriend a steroid-addled bear on Redbull. The man had a way of solving problems by creating more problems - and he wasn’t exactly the most personable either. 

Though Lance tries not to participate in gossip, it’s practically common knowledge around the agency that Bolshintsov had desperately wanted to make Agent - though he was never completely cut out for it; what with failing portions of the H.T.U.V Agent examination on ethics and morality; as early as Stage B. For this reason, Bolshintov channeled his anger into the Detainment Division - where he had risen to an operating and managerial position. Though from the way he’s looked at him during monthly departmental meetings (like he would like nothing more than to run him over), Lance will be damned if Bolshintov ever got over his past failure.

So it was that Lance stood there for a moment - his thumb flitting between the answer and decline buttons as he stood waiting for the elevator; wondering if he should violate a dozen department codes or kill a dozen brain cells. 

Sighing, Lance answered the call and held the phone to his ear - before immediately pulling away at the string of obscenities that burst from multiple voices in the background. He recognized it as arguing; though it fell silent just as quick; replaced by a singular voice he recognized as Bolshintsov’s. The elevator arrived and he stepped in, punching a button for his parking level.

_“Agent Sterling - some of my men are unhappy at the presence of a certain Tristan McFord you brought in - who’s been dragging a mechanical prosthetic across the walls. They fear the structural damage he may be causing and would like to speak with higher-ups in Taskforce and the board to move up the date for transfer.”_

Confusion descended on Lance: “Wait - Tristan McFord? Are you talking about Killian?”

Bolshintsov huffed out a _yes._ Lance was disoriented all of a sudden. He thought back to those sharp cheekbones, jet-black hair lined with faint streaks of silver, and those owl-like eyes...so full of hate. A ridiculous smirk played at his lips. Yeah - he could see him as a Tristan. 

_“I am not sure what to do at this point,”_ Bolshintsov was saying: _“McFord is dangerous. And we cannot afford a security breach at this time-”_

“Wait - do you mean you haven’t disabled his arm yet?” Incredulity overtook humor. The elevator ride to the agency parking lot had never felt so long; as if the smooth Slavic prickling his skin had the ability to warp time. 

Bolshintsov responded steadily - though Lance could hear the repressed rage:

 _“We have,_ Agent _Sterling. You wanted it offline, no?”_ Bolshintsov all but spat his title; as if it was a ball of phlegm at the back of his throat.

Lance took a deep breath, striding towards the track of the parking lot. Pulling his car keys from his breast pocket, he pressed his thumb against the flat indentation of the key disk. A buzz indicated the reading of his fingerprint. Somewhere in the lot, an engine hummed to life. He focused on the familiar roar of the motors in the distance when he responded; his grip on the phone tighter than necessary.

“Igor - I specifically stated that ‘disable’ means to ‘disarm’; as in - I need you to disarm Killian. Literally.” Lance tasted the condescension in his voice - though his frustration made it difficult to swallow: “Look - I’ve given you guys a week to do it. Take the damn thing off him as soon as possible and lock it up in the agency’s weapons vault. I’m picking it up tomorrow morning for a friend.” 

_“You make it sound as if it’s that easy - disarming the prisoner. We don’t know how to do so. It… hurt... Especially...puts up.... fight. ”_

Lance could barely make out Bolshintsov’s words as his car came hurtling around the corner - engines roaring. The sleek vehicle slid to a stop before the agent; its driver’s door popping open invitingly. 

“Sure, sure,” Lance tossed back into the receiver as he slid into the driver’s seat with a smooth click of the seatbelt: “Look, Igor - I need to get going now. ‘S alright if you don’t wanna make the trip to the weapon’s vault with the arm. Actually - let me just take it off your hands personally. Tomorrow morning - nine-thirty. Sounds good?”

A second of tense silence permeated the line. Then Lance heard a grunt of affirmation.

 _“Very well,”_ came Bolshintsov’s voice. Lance pretended to miss the clear aggravation in tone. Sending forth one last cheery goodbye, he hung up. 

Dropping the phone into his cup holder, Lance Sterling shifted gears and tapped on the sound system; letting Lil Jon wipe away the day’s troubles from his mind as he swerved out the lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof! This was a difficult one. I've got a plot, and combined with my intense ADHD, there's nothing more I fear than boring you darlings that read this! So it's literally a giant thing full of quick twists and turns I'm trying to break into chapters that don't take away from the story's flow as a whole... Some notes on this chapter:
> 
> \- At one point during the SiD battle scene, Killian found and tore out a gun from the components of a fallen drone and weaponized it till Lance and Marcy tackled it off him. That particular scene gave me the impression that Killian has an engineering background and isn't just a villain who's alright with not knowing how their weapons and gadgets worked. I mean, it showed that Killian didn't build the drones - he bought them, stolen from the agency - in the first four minutes so he must have dissected them and learned how to use it on his own time. What a smart boi. 
> 
> \- Lil Jon is the musician that made a majority of the songs for the OST of SiD
> 
> Anywho, Chapt. 3 coming out later this week! I feed on comments and kudos so keep 'em coming! <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To understand the present, we must understand the past.
> 
> Aka - This one's on Kyrgyzstan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These chapters just keep getting progressively longer, don't they? XD
> 
> Okay, prepare for this chapter to be a little fucked up at the end. Gore warning. Violence warning. All that jazz, luvs. You'll see...

Walter wasn’t sure what made him decide to examine the files at home. He just didn’t feel comfortable reading them in the office - unsure if they were stolen or not. Lance never told him. In any case, it was borderline a suspension-inducing action. Not that anybody had to know… If his time spent with Lance had taught him anything, it was that smaller rules had to be broken for bigger rules to be fixed. 

However, that still didn’t stop Walter’s legs from trembling or throat drying from actions as small as walking across the building to bidding Chère goodnight. He bused home with Lovey perched on his head, hands incessantly fidgeting with the multi-pen in his lap to keep his mind from the imposing navy H.T.U.V folder tucked in his backpack; contents unknown. When he got to his stop, Walter nearly tripped off the steps and in walking home, the motion of him turning his head every five seconds in paranoia sent Lovey ruffling her feathers in irritation and dropping to his shoulder, pecking him lightly to voice her discomfort.

The sidewalk seemed to stretch on forever; until he finally reached his porch and - throwing open his door and twisting it shut - Walter wasted no time in washing up, prepping a small glass of milk, and heating up a plate of Chère’s cookies before climbing into his unicorn-patterned pajamas. Lovey fluttered onto his pillow, settling her head under her wing with a soft coo. 

“Good idea, Lovey,” Walter smiled, watching her shift a little as he followed suit - dropping his bag next to his lime-green dresser and settling down on the covers, legs crossed. In all honesty, Walter wanted to turn off the warm glow of the lamp and sink into sleep. And he almost did too; until his eyes caught the corner of that navy file sticking out from where he hadn’t fully zipped his backpack.

Fear banished all notions of sleep in him as he wondered, for a moment, if anyone had recognized the corner of the folder. He brushed that idea off for utter ridiculousness just as quick. Curiosity surged through the wave of initial fear soon enough, though - as Walter turned his bag to him and unzipped it, drawing out the folder and laying it on his covers. 

The warm glow from his lamp and the glass of milk and cookies settling in his stomach took some edge off the stark contrast of papers tucked in a dark navy file emblazoned with the agency’s coat of arms. Spreading it out; Walter counted about twenty pages of reading, single-sided. Half of it were aliases, field notes, and encounters - which he pushed to the side for the moment. A quarter of the pages were birth certificates and medical documents; to which Walter placed horizontally atop the first half. The remaining five and a half pages were unlabelled - but had rested, stapled together, at the very top of the files. They were printed on cream-colored paper unlike the rest; which were white as snow. Walter thumbed through them:

**_Case File no. 3003:_ ** _ TRISTAN “KILLIAN” MCFORD  _

**_Gender:_ ** _ Male _

**_Threat Class_** **:** ~~ _B-02; see addendum Kyrg-2/2016_~~ _In light of incident HTUV-1/2019, reclassification of MCFORD as Class A-00 is under effect. DO NOT ENGAGE._

**_Agency Overview:_ ** _ Subject has a history of employment with the RAN (Royal Australian Navy) until the events of Melb-1/2008 in which  _ [REDACTED].  _ Specialties located as a mechanical and electrical engineer with a focus on weaponry and comms overkill. A history of military training and experience in combat is also present. Records of criminality and delinquencies are listed as: _

[UPDATED]:  _ Attempted genocide / Murder / Incrimination / Identity theft / Assault / Corruption / Hacking and Computer Crime / Felony Grand Theft / Larceny / Conspiracy / Treason / Bribery / Terrorism / Kidnapping / Vandalism / Manslaughter / Forgery / Arson / Trafficking Weapons of Mass Destruction / Espionage… _

Walter rubbed his eyes at that one - sure that he had read it wrong somehow. “ _ Espionage”?  _ No way. Killian had been a  _ spy?  _ The irony was not lost on him. Walter let his gaze slide down the rest of the page and felt a nervous whimper escape him at the list of crimes lost in a fog of words; some he didn’t even know the definition of and had to look up. After scanning the paragraph of “ _ /” _ s and charges, Walter decided to try something. He took his eyes off the page and named a crime ( _ Embezzlement _ ), then scanned the paragraph of words, looking, searching, wondering why this wasn’t in alphabetical order...And - oh. There it was - sandwiched between  _ Tax Evasion  _ and  _ Money Laundering. _ Walter winced out a dry chuckle. 

He skipped the rest of that package - and the subtitles on  **_Skill Sets_ ** ,  **_Connections_ ** \- though stopped on  **_Handling and Containment Procedures_ ** . There was a length of print crossed out by a sharp black pen; followed by scraggly penmanship that contrasted the neatness of the overall report - and which caught Walter’s eye. 

~~_ Field encounters with the subject will be kept to a minimum; with no aggressive countermeasures unless otherwise provoked. All weaponry to be utilized against the subject must be approved as non-lethal; with the unique objective of capture. Containment will be standard; above ground-level holding and scheduled interrogations for retrieval of suppliers and case-related information.  _ ~~

_ scrEW ALL OF THAT! [UPDATED]: Solitary confinement protocol AR-007 is the way to go with this one. No less than five men around every second during transfer, incite thermal and EMT interference security systems; and keep located at site-051 for a maximum of three weeks as a TFT. Not a second longer. Site-084 should hold him fine after that. _

_ Site-084;  _ Walter had heard that before from Marcy as being Norm, Alaska. He frowned and thought back to the CROP guidelines that he was sent today - of which Lance were placing into effect. One of the highlights had been that prisoner transfers were largely to be kept at a minimum. Conflicted, Walter skipped through the rest of the first package; taking note of any useful information in developing his assignment and desperately avoiding the side quests of information that were always abundant. It was mostly summaries and addendums of Killian’s position in the criminal underworld, offenses against the agency, outstanding damages, and general overviews. 

The second stack was a lot more useful, though. There, he found everything he needed and more; height, prints, mass - even a few blood samples had been somehow collected; all accurate to within a year. Some speculation on the extent of Killian’s injuries via eyewitnesses and first-hand sources were in there as well as page after page of photos, interviews, medical documents from international hospitals stamped in large, bold letters that read _CONFIDENTIAL_ ; most translated from a multitude of different languages. 

Walter poured himself over the papers for hours. It was midnight when he worked his way through the last of them - jotting down notes, re-reading, and making calculations as he continued to sketch out a prototype of the prosthetic on his tablet. Time flew by in the semi-darkness. When he looked up, four hours had come and gone and it was...raining? Turning his head, Walter noticed the window of his bedroom was, sure enough, dancing with water droplets. The pitter of falling rain soothed his nerves though - even if it made him a little sleepy.

With half of the files read and done, Walter turned to the other ten pages. They were bound in a plastic bag, crisp and ghostly white. Walter unzipped it, sliding the papers out. These weren’t stapled, so he was able to spread them atop his sheets, careful to keep them from mixing with the rest of the stash.

Walter flipped through the first seven of them; the addendums lined with codenames, numbers, and locations he didn’t quite understand. The encryption key that was used was also lost on him; It was equivalent to linguistic RSA? AES? Walter wasn’t sure as he stared at the lines of numbers and letters that resembled hexadecimal script. Nevermind that - he eventually thumbed his way to the last three pages and sighed in relief at being able to understand them. That is before his breathing caught in his throat.

The folder of papers within the file had been set aside for a reason - and it wasn’t pretty, Walter realized as he stared at the stamp on the sheet he held now; which read CASE-02: KYRGYZSTAN. He faintly remembered the word - uttered by Lance that day in the ruins ( _“I’m sorry for what happened in Kyrgyzstan!”_ ) to Killian. It didn’t seem important to him then - in his haste to save the agency and all. It may still be unimportant to his project now… But Walter didn’t find such an argument satisfying enough to stop and his eyes had already begun to scan the page in interest, so...

**_Addendum - Incident Kyrg-2/2016: Sub. Code “_ ** _ Hellfire” _ **_:_ **

**_Cause for Report:_ ** _ Actionable Mass Extermination, Excessive Force in Contact Despite Provisionable De-escalation, Casualty LVL estimated to achieve 9.7+ _

**_Recursive Actions:_ ** _ Amnesiacs to be administered for all civilians in attendance, innocents caught in the crossfire, or friends and family members of the deceased/grievously injured. Press silenced; and resulting carnage placed under the cause of drilling malfunction. UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES ARE AMNESIACS TO BE ADMINISTERED TO AGENCY AND HOSTILE POWERS INVOLVED IN THE INCIDENT. FAILURE TO COMPLY WILL RESULT IN IMMEDIATE TERMINATION.  _

Walter bit his lip at the word  _ TERMINATION _ \- wondering if it meant losing your life or losing your job. Knowing the agency at that time, it really could be either one. He noticed a line of words below that; a small scribble - in pencil; so faded it barely registered:

_ Deum ut remittat nobis peccata, sed meminisse necesse est. _

Walter grew still at the implications of the message. He read it over again:  _ Let God forgive our sins, but we must remember. _ He shivered at the chill that ran down his spine, but read on:

**_Lead-Up Report of Hostile Involvement - Addendum 065-2:_ **

_ 05/21/2016: Alpha-072 engages in recon mission at Krasnovodsk, Turkmenistan - shore of the Caspian Sea; intercepting a transmission between McFord (exact location [REDACTED]) that cites the successful shipment and tracking of components:  _

_ X50 Permanent, large-scale undulator magnets, X8 GPHS Interface plates, X10 Heat Distribution Blocks (Model Poco graphite AXF-5Q1), 115 lbs of black gunpowder and preload for dynamite construction, 85 lbs of isotope Uranium-235 and one industrial-sized semi-truck, lead-lined* _

_...As well as a conversation with an underground arms dealer - Katsu Kimura.  _

_ *Recon team Alpha notes this instruction as a highly likely plan to weaponize energy via nuclear fission in accordance to the following transmission tracked between Comms-Operation and Foxtrot of Alpha-072; present in recon:  _

_Com-OP:_ _Foxtrot - come in with your position and status._

 _F/A072:_ _Status - undetected, safe. Position - northeast of the warehouse -_ _40.0337° N, 52.9759° E;_ _below the parapet on the roof. I’ve got a visual on McFord; audio working as_ _well...Sending now. Permission to report?_

 _Com-OP:_ _Received and granted. Report to start._

 _F/A072:_ _He’s speaking with someone over the phone. I’m just out of range of the EMP but close enough for satellite detection so it’s coming out very fuzzy…But he’s saying that... The bank job in Tuscany, the aircraft hijack in Moscow - my god - even the gas line explosion in San Cristobal - were all meant to finance the target - he calls it._

 _Com-OP:_ _What’s the target, Foxtrot?_

 _F/A072:_ _Audio is breaking...but it’s in Kyrgyzstan. An attack on Centerra Gold._

 _Com-OP:_ _The Canadian-based gold mining company?_

 _F/A072:_ _That’s the one; particularly the Kumtor Gold Mine; located in...Issyk-Kul? Yes._

_ Kyrgyzstan. The operation is terroristically-based; McFord is… threatening to...to detonate - wait. No. Not detonate. Activate... a seismic undulator - powered by particle acceleration and synchrotron components… with the capacity to level about 800 square kilometers. McFord’s plan is to threaten Centerra Gold into overriding production levels of gold and mineral deposits with this technology for his own gain… He’s speaking with the transcontinental smuggling service now on finalizing the shipment of materials needed to construct the undulator. But something’s not right... _

_Com-OP:_ _What is it?_

 _F/A072:_ _The list of materials he’s checking for transport doesn’t sound like it’s going to be used_ _for the undulator. I mean, black gunpowder and fuse? Shell casings, shrapnel-Wait. Oh no… Shit! Son of a-_

 _Com-OP:_ _Foxtrot - status!_

 _F/A072:_ _Still undetected, safe. He’s not finalizing the build for the undulator. That’s already done!_ _They’re well underway with mining, production, and transport. This...This is a lot bigger_ _than we hypothesized._

 _Com-OP:_ _So what’s all the gunpowder for…?_

 _F/A072:_ _Hold on...Adjusting the signals annnd… There we go. McFord is discussing_ _payment for the most recent supply of explosives. This isn’t your run-of-the-mill TNT gunpowder. It’s_ _pentaerythritol tetranitrate - PETN; state-of-the-art; enough to blow the Kumtor Mine, and the Centerra Gold workers sky-high after he’s done with it. Estimated casualty count would be in the three thousands...If we’re counting the geographic damage and avalanche risks to nearby villages._

 _Com-OP:_ _PETN? There had been only two underground suppliers in the world that possess this_ _kind of ammunition and we terminated one of them a year ago..._

 _F/A072:_ _...Which means McFord is in contact with Katsu Kimura. And… Oh god. They are_ _setting the facility to blow a week from now, as gold retraction is already halfway_ _complete. The mine is...static - goddamn it - is… pre-programmed to lock down on the 28th at… 23:59; and the PETN to set off at midnight; an hour after they drive off with the undulator for their next target. Jesus Christ… He has a list…! All the rare mineral deposits in the world… Indonesia, Barrick Nevada, Lihir in Papua New Guinea._

_ [REPORT STATES A 7 SECOND DELAY BEFORE RESPONSE FROM OPERATION] _

_Com-OP:_ _Foxtrot, do you have a clean shot of McFord?_

 _F/A072:_ _No; he’s got twenty-two with him - all hostile, and as this site has not yet been permeated;_ _I’m unsure if the glass is bulletproof. The bastard’s pacing too - so it’ll be a one-in-a-million hit. I wouldn’t count on those odds._

 _Com-OP:_ _Received. In that case, do not engage. Recon over. Exit perimeters by the southwest fire_ _escape. Transport van will be there to receive you at St.John’s and Baymouth._

 _F/A072:_ _Got it. Ending transmission._

_ [TRANSMISSION OVER] _

Walter rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hand; suddenly aware that his heart was pounding like it’ll explode any second and his hands were damp with sweat. He wondered if Foxtrot made it out safe and thought back to Killian ( _McFord_ ). Lance wasn’t kidding in the overtly brief conversations he had whenever Walter asked about his history with Killian. He _was_ going to hurt a lot of people. 

And all for what? Gold? Walter felt himself rocking back and forth, his arms wrapped around his legs tightly. He let out a soft breath. There’s no way he could stop here. His eyes jumped to the next report - this one highlighting an event; the event on Kyrgyzstan:

**_Event Summary - Incident Kyrg-02/2016:_ **

_ Field Instructions: OTE (Open To Engage); on all levels - Battlefront Protocol _

_ Target Location: Kumtor Gold Mine, Kyrgyzstan - Coordinates [REDACTED] _

_ Objectives: Retrieve and rescue civilian and personnel workers, disable hostile PETN set-up and safeguard facility equipment and space for minimizing casualties, locate McFord’s seismic undulator and take both into custody - as well as all acquaintances involved; Unprompted. [REDACTED] _

_ Agency Field Personnel in Charge of Attack by Task Forces:  _

_ Pearson O’Hara [DECEASED], Melissa Vergara [DECEASED], Hussain Bharash [DECEASED], Justin Thompson [DECEASED], Lance Sterling [ _ ~~_ UNDER INVESTIGATION _ ~~ _~~]~~ [INVESTIGATION ANNULLED], Beatrice Cofield [DECEASED] _

Walter felt his stomach drop at the names, followed by a painful stab to his chest in realizing that these names had once belonged to people as real as himself; who had all died through the actions of another. People with families, friends… Perhaps even significant others. He briefly wondered if he would still have saved Killian that day above the north sea if he knew how many lives the man was responsible for taking. Before he could consider that, though, two numbers immediately below the list caught his eye.

_Agency Casualty Count:_ _55_

 _Hostile Casualty Count:_ _189_

Walter inhaled sharply, tracing his finger across the black print in contrast with pale paper. He let out a heavy sigh. It was not a matter of who had the most casualties. Both sides had suffered - it was only a matter of perspective. So, the answer to whether he would still have saved Killian was  _ yes _ . Walter did not believe his self-sacrifice indicated to or rested on the other person; only an outcome of who he was himself. To him, violence has no place in this world and neither does the suffering it brings to people... So if Walter had to give up his life to support this idea, so be it.

There was a final entry in the file below that. He scanned it and realized there was no reference to the person that wrote it saved for a codename -  _ Goldfinch: _

_ [FOLLOWING REPORT NOTES]: Issued and redeemed by the corporal commander of communications operating and in charge of mobilizing Task Force Kappa-Omicron-Psi for Operation Hellfire: hereby in charge of the mission’s entirety (codename: Goldfinch). Three board of directors are to maintain positions on standby: JOY JENKINS (Joyless), FELICIA HUANG (Phoenix), and ILIAS SUKINOV (Illiad) - for emergency decisions only.  _

_ [EVENT REPORT] - AS RECORD OF GOLDFINCH: AGENT NO. BK602 _

_ It started out just fine. We had scouted the location the night before the attack; a dead piece of land it was. No vegetation or animals for a mile around; just a pit of blackened soil with steps carved into the side of a mountain range. Almost ironic - being that the scenery behind the mine was beautiful; all snow-capped mountains and soaring falcons. Two villages sat around the area too - one higher-up on the mountain and another to the south; right at the edge of the greenery.  _

_ Centerra Gold’s facility was a blue, walled-up building sitting at the bottom of that blackened pit - surrounded by a variety of trailers, storage units, and machinery. The company’s site manager - Theodore Reeves - had escaped prior to McFord’s blockage. Reeves was a shrewd but cowardly man. Rubbed me the wrong way - what with leaving his people behind like that. But I guess we owe it to him in any case. He’s the reason we had barely a third as many casualties as the hostiles. Reeves knew the site inside out, having worked there for twenty years. Gas lines, blueprints, potential hideouts; it was like having a book of cheat codes. Not that this was a game... Anyway, with that in addition to Recon Team Alpha-072; we had them scouted bare. Disabling the PETN and securing the seismic undulator was the agency’s top priority, but we couldn’t very well do so without sieging the place. They had installed a wall of sentries around the facility; long-shot rifles and grenades covering a 430-meter radius and had also planted the PETN below the facility; largely below where the production workers processed and readied the gold and minerals for shipment. The best plan we got was to send three strike teams. Kappa and Omicron will bombard the walls - distracting the majority of their forces. Not a problem. We outnumbered them two to one anyway. Meanwhile, Task Force Psi will maneuver around the back through an emergency escape tunnel Reeves had described, disable the PETN, secure the seismic undulator and capture McFord.  _

_ The attack began at 13:45 on 05/28/2016. At 14:00, Task Force Psi ripped through their back; and McFord’s front lines began to retreat - a reaction that was anticipated.  _

_ Then it all went to shit when McFord created a barricade at the front and locked down the entire indoor production unit. Remote titanium gates snapped down to block all exits with Psi still in the facility. Task Force Psi was butchered in encountering the rest of McFord’s hostiles. His people knew the surroundings better; and when the Psi agents found their escape route blocked - they panicked. It was a bloodbath - and by 15:30 - the entirety of Task Force Psi was reduced to nothing. Our six field agents in command became one - Lance Sterling; who handled Omicron and Kappa; received no other instruction besides to work on breaching the barricaded facilities, and upon entry, carry out the rest of the objectives. _

_ At 18:00, we received a call from McFord - using the agency-issued comms. that he probably picked up from O’Hara’s body. We didn’t record it. Perhaps we should have. But we didn’t. It wasn’t that type of conversation.  _

_ McFord was asking for a truce. Can you believe it?! A truce! I had half the mind to hang up right there. But instead I laughed and told him unless he could bring every Task Force Psi out to argue on his behalf, we’re bombing him and his men to hell right there; PETN be damned. That son of a bitch had the audacity to scoff and call our bluff; his point being that there were around two hundred workers in the facilities underground right next to said PETN and: “What do you think will happen if you start launching your little toys?”  _

_ His counter-offer was that he’ll surrender peacefully if the agency would just let his men go. Only his men; and told us that we could have him - all his estates, resources, his life, even - in retribution. Just let his men go.  _

_ I relayed his message to the board, but before a vote could take place, Sterling broke through the barricade with Kappa and Omicron at 18:15. Comms were cut between McFord and Com-OP and we knew it was too late. I ordered operations to hack into the facility monitors and broadcast system...Except comms had been overridden by McFord and the ensuing gunfire resulted in peace as an impossibility. We were unable to do much but watch the carnage as we had watched the death of Task Force Psi - in reverence, fear, and awe.  _

_ It was hellfire and slaughter compared to no other. His men fought well, but ours fought better; and so it was that they died by the dozens. McFord himself clearly had a military background - taking down eleven agents that day; minuscule numbers compared to his own casualties. We lost all visuals on him at 19:50, and by 20:15, the battle was over.  _

_ 582 agency and hostile men injured in total, 244 dead from both sides. No civilian casualties; saved for a few bruises and cuts from the takeover - all minor; on 5, maximum. The PETN was disabled and McFord’s seismic undulator was confiscated within the hour. His body was not recovered; so it was presumed that he escaped, though definitely in decimated numbers. The gold and minerals that were forced into production were never recovered as well; an indication of a transcontinental exchange. Perhaps further partnership between McFord and Katsu Kimura could be expected in the future; protocol to be rendered.  _

_ [END OF REPORT] _

**_Incident-Related Final Notes:_ ** _ [TIMESTAMPED]  _

_ 11/02/2016 - Theodore Reeves was found dead in a motel bathtub in the city of [REDACTED], England. Cause of death - third-degree burns via gasoline and blowtorch - both items of which were found standing atop the counter. A singular note attached, read:  _

**_Send my greetings to Barbara Kingston. She’s next._ **

_ Agent Goldfinch was immediately placed under agency witness protection. Forensics found nothing on the note or murder weapons. _

_ 02/14/2017 - Agent Goldfinch (code: BK602) was reported missing two days after accepting a mission in Manaus, Brazil. Her plane never arrived at its destination. Agency travel data shows the deletion of Goldfinch’s aerial pathways and tracker location an hour after departure; undetected through a relay of incorrect data provided by foreign hacking, untraceable.  _

_ 05/28/2017 - A package arrived at site-[REDACTED] in a black box - wrapped with gold ribbons. Upon opening, Goldfinch’s bones were discovered along with another note attached: _

**_Happy one-year anniversary from Kyrgyzstan - and to sweet, sweet revenge._ **

_ Forensics and autopsy revealed, again, nothing on the note - only that the cause of death had been a standard F1 hand grenade. The flesh had been separated through exposure to hydrochloric acid; remnant samples being a month old. Origins are unclear. _

_ [END OF NOTES] _

Walter felt as if he was going to throw up - and sure enough, he was. His head spun as he rushed to the bathroom; tossing the seat up and began fully retching into the toilet. The vile mix of milk and cookies carved a path of fire through his throat as he coughed up the last of his late-night meal. 

Wiping his mouth with some tissues, he stood shakily and flushed the contents of his stomach. Before long, Walter stumbled his way to the sink and turned the faucet all the way to the right; splashing icy water over his face, and running the stream over his hands. When he looked in the mirror, he saw that his face had turned pale; but his ears were red as blood. 

Walter worked to steady his breathing as he made his way back to his bed to put away the papers, his movements lethargic; though his mind was anything but. The rain outside had begun to hammer against the glass in angry sheets rather than musically brush it as it did for the past couple of hours; as if Walter had wronged it somehow. Dropping his eyes, Walter noticed that Lovey was still asleep on his pillow and he calmed at seeing her so peaceful - perhaps even envied her a little as he knew there was no point in trying to sleep now.

His tablet was still on the bed though - its digital screen, sketchings, blueprints and calculations of a certain prosthetic offering a friendly escape from his mind. Picking it up, Walter stared at the screen and sighed - deciding to do what he did best. He doesn’t remember much except trudging to his lab bench, breaking out the scrap metal. Only that Walter began to work. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Congrats! You made it! Ok, now notes:  
> \- Centerra Gold is a real company and the descriptions I wrote for it is also based on a quick Google Image search of the Kumtor Gold Mine. Check it out. It's a beautiful piece of land; if not for the giant, gaping black hole that's the mine sitting dead-center. Capitalism is the true enemy here, y'all.
> 
> \- Lance didn't recognize Killian in the movie and I'm guessing it's because the years haven't been kind to Kills (unlikely. He's got such distinct features) or - more probably - that Lance never encountered him during the battle. It was chaos, I mean. He had just enough time to see Lance lead the attack but 99% of the night to him was more likely combatting the slaughter of his people...:(
> 
> -As for the whole serial-killer vibes I put on Killian, in the end, it is all to accentuate the seriousness of his character. In the movie, you're reminded at every turn how vicious he is at pursuing his goal. From the considerable lack of dialogue in his first scene with attacking Lance to that motorcycle-flipping and literal attempted murder of Walter (who wasn't even involved with Kyrgyzstan!); I've always wondered what he would have done, if he could have successfully, to the people that made him that way. Welp. Now we know.
> 
> -But also that note he left with Goldfinch's bones? Implies that it's from Kyrgyzstan - on the anniversary of the battle? Just - what if Killian visited Kyrgyzstan once a year - where the Kumtor Gold Mine is - to just sit and mourn the death of his soldiers... #Great. #IjustmademyselfSUPERsad.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Killian gets a few visits, Walter gets some much-deserved praise and Lance gets angry.

_Get in, get the arm, get out. Get in, get the arm, get out..._

The white corridors and labyrinth-like layout of the Detainment Division never agreed with Lance. His work was mainly reserved for the field. Taking down bad guys, disabling bombs, going undercover - that was his territory; his comfort zone. But as for where those bad guys and their weapons went after he brought them in... Well, who cares? As long as they aren’t off hurting any more people, it was pretty irrelevant to him.

So Lance set a brisk pace down the tiled halls - led by a short man in spectacles, a comfy, navy-blue sweater and plaited khakis a little too big for him. The man had introduced himself to Lance as Joseph Wilburt; assistant and one of the on-site security coordinators to Bolshintsov - here to guide him to his appointed pick-up point near cell A-893 and answer any questions along the way.

Lance had only one - why was it so cold down here? Why not turn on the heating unit?

“Detainment and TFTs are the furthest underground - so heating would be a lot more costly than any other division.” Wilburt had explained. “Plus - even without heating as we are now, Detainment is already the most expensive to run; what with the EMP machines, thermal-imaging, hundreds of security cameras and hand-picked guard staff on-call 24/7… Ah - Here we are!”

And sure enough, they were. A reinforced glass door - lined with wires sparking with electricity slid open with a swipe of the card Wilburt had tugged from the lanyard around his neck. Stepping through, Lance found himself in another hallway that stretched from left to right; ending around twenty meters away from him - at a door that he knew to be A-893. There were two armed men standing outside it; though Lance wondered why. The Inconel door, vault-lock, and passkey were impenetrable (not even exaggerating) along level A; which, in comparison to the rest of the facility, was borderline a fortress.

Wilburt indicated for Lance to wait at the entrance to the hall - and then took off down the corridor, sneakers making soft patterings against the tiles. Lance turned his attention from the empty reception desk located against the wall to his left for a moment before looking back at Wilburt’s retreating figure. The small assistant grew smaller still until he reached the cell at the very end of the hall. 

In the distance, Lance saw Wilburt say something to the guard on the right. After a few words back and forth, the guard turned and pounded on the cell door, calling out for someone within. A second later, the door swung open and Bolshintsov strode out - followed by five men. The cell was hastily slammed shut behind them as they stalked towards him. 

Lance’s heart stopped when the group was around five meters away from him. Under the fluorescents, Lance saw that two of the five men following Bolshintsov were bloodied. The one closest to him, a blond fellow, had a nasty cut from the base of his right ear and across his throat - dangerously close to his carotid artery - along with a bruise forming around his temple. 

The second guy had it worse. His shirt was shredded from the shoulders downwards to the ribs in a laceration that was weeping red; staining the snow-white ground with crimson droplets as he moved. Speaking of, Lance noticed that the poor guy’s every step was flavored with a limp. The man was cradling his knee with one hand while his other arm was slung around the shoulders of a third, uninjured guard - wincing with every step. Lance knew enough about tendon tears (and was sometimes even the cause of them) to recognize a shredded ACL when he saw one. 

The rest seemed fine to him from afar. Although coated in sprays of blood - Lance could tell that they were relatively okay, saved for some cuts around the brow bone and jaw that indicated a hit to the face. Partnered with the occasional angry glance back to the cell door behind them, Lance could guess that they had their fill; probably even reached that critical point in a fight where they realized they were evenly matched. 

And as for Bolshintsov himself at the head of the procession - and Lance was not very surprised to find that he looked immaculate. The man was strong as an ox; with the height and build to match - towering a head above Lance himself. There was no way he would’ve lost whatever struggle just occurred and as for the blood dripping from his knuckles and cuffs-

Lance stopped, blinked. He felt his mouth drop open as he saw what Bolshintsov was carrying towards him. From down the hall, it had looked like a propeller blade or length of scrapped metal… Now, he could make out the sharpness that glanced off each claw, the metallic sheen of the arm, and the beams of steel that supported its weight; all wrapped in Bolshintsov’s fleshy grip. 

“...Never told us McFord was a fighter, did ya, Sterling?” Bolshintsov was sneering; his steps stopped before Lance. He turned and gestured to the five men - who trudged through the side of the hallway - likely heading off towards the infirmary. After the last of them had made it out the hallway, Bolshintsov proceeded to unceremoniously dump the arm into the agent’s hands. Lance drew in a sharp breath at seeing the blood dripping from the talons of the metalwork; coating the surface of the steel in a ruby haze. 

“What did you do?!” Lance heard himself fighting to contain a shout, eyes shooting up to Bolshintsov. The intensity of his voice wiped the sneer from the manager’s face; replacing it with a scowl.

“Oh please - you know how they are,” he was saying: “Not as if we went in there with lethals or anything… We wanted the arm. He wanted us dead. I’m sure you can fill in the rest.”

“You _hurt_ him. Why?! You had five men with you and an armory of immobilizers…What-you-,” Lance stammered, vaguely aware that Wilburt had moved away from both of them and was now cowering next to the reception desk. 

Bolshintsov let out a gruff laugh. With one arm cradling the mechanical talons, Lance felt his free hand curling in a fist to avoid strangling the life out of the man before him.

“Hell - he wasn’t so defenseless, you know. Kitty’s got claws - and he got us pretty good too. Kicked me in the ribs, almost killed Rivera... Took an hour to literally wring the disengage code for that-” He nodded to the arm Lance was holding: “-out of him. Wasn’t an easy job at all.”

“Good. Glad he put up a fight,” Lance bit back. Bolshintsov shrugged with an air of nonchalance - as if they were talking about the weather.

“Hmm. Sure. It probably would have been better for him if he didn’t, though.”

Lance froze, physical impassivity becoming an effort to maintain: “ _What?”_

“Oh, as you said - it was six against one. I mean, McFord had it coming… Guildenstern might have cracked a rib and Holtz definitely bruised something, but you never know. I’m sure that whatever doctor coming to replace that arm could check on him then...”

Anger. It’s an unpredictable thing; and dangerous. Lance felt it rolling through him - his skin was buzzing with it and the air around the level that he had once thought belonged nowhere outside a freezer now felt as stifling as the inside of a volcano. Knuckles white, Lance knew he had to leave _right now_ before doing something he regretted. 

Moreover, there was a slim view around Bolshintsov. The hallway was wide, after all - and he could see a vertical strip of A-893’s metal door from where he stood. Lance did not want to imagine the figure wrapped in a navy blue shirt, probably prone against the floor of that cell at the far end of the hall. Feeling his head churn, Lance spun and gestured towards Wilburt - who quickly unlocked the gate for him to exit; though not quick enough for him to miss a final farewell from Bolshintsov:

“...I did warn you that this might happen, Sterling! On the phone-? I said that we did not know _how_ to get it off him. You said sure. I said it might hurt, especially if he puts up a fight. You said sure. Ain’t that right, now?” the thick voice called out to his back. 

Lance’s throat closed as he stalked out the halls with the mechanical arm; his stomach felt as if it had been dried into jerky. Guilt. Worse than anger, he thought. Lance had tried to unhear Bolshintsov’s words as he passed through the elevator doors riding further and further from that hallway - aware of the people around him eyeing the robotic appendage in his arms as he walked by. He could not shy from the eyes, the odd glances, and hushed stares. Gazes that once admired now seemed to accuse. Lance felt sick. He did nothing wrong… Lance wasn’t the one who had...who-

 _But you let it be done all the same_ \- a voice nagged at the back of his mind: _Hadn’t you pledged to protect everyone?_ Lance shook his head and muttered a quiet curse - barely aware that he had climbed the railings to Walter’s office. The space was empty; it was still early in the day, after all - not to mention a Sunday. Thank goodness. Looking down, the last thing he needed now was prying questions on how he obtained the arm… The arm that was still dripping blood. Oh.

Lance took the time to retrieve a pocket square from his jacket to rub the remnants of (Rivera’s? Guildenstern’s? He hoped it was somehow Bolshintsov’s...) blood off the talons of the arm, carefully; leaving no trace behind before handing it over to Chère at her desk atop the platform. 

The older woman had nodded dutifully at his instruction to notify Walter of the tech’s presence when he arrived later. At any other time, Lance would have chuckled at the stark contrast between the deadly metallic appendage and the elderly, sugar-sweet lady that was handling it off to the side as he left. Except now; in which his mind was clouded with fury and running on some very serious objectives in order to settle that.

* * *

Walter was done in three days.

Ironically enough, the design had been the most difficult part of the endeavor. Wiring, mechanizing, and testing had been quite simple in fact; what with Killian’s older model sitting right there for him to learn from. 

The mechanical claw-like surrogate for a hand was actually an ingenious piece of machinery; in consideration of the magnetic attached and locking mechanism additive to the sophistication of its power source. Walter could have guessed; though would never have believed that the arm somehow ran on the user’s metabolism and heat energy. A string of electrolytic cells sat at the end of the arm’s base, continuously converting chemical energy to electricity. Information via the nervous system was sent and received through a complex network of circuitry which Walter couldn’t help but marvel at. Both power source and the data highway components formed the basis of the arm; and which he certainly kept to integrate.

In fact, the only changes Walter truly had to install was the redesign of the hand itself. Keeping the circuitry alive, Walter took apart the talons and smelted a series of joints to sit and bend around a palm. He had puzzled over what metal Killian would prefer for an hour before finally deciding to melt the old talons and disk fragments into what he would need. And _goodness_ did that take a while…

The truth is, when he started, Walter had no idea what alloy the former prosthetic metal was made of; so trial and error had been the way to go. Against better judgment, Walter had supercharged his car battery and tied it to his washing machine while jamming the fuses (huge fire hazard, by the way) of his house to supply his furnace with enough power to reach the designated temperature for melting the arm’s metal; which he had prior to placed in a heat-resistant vat. Standing in the dark for three hours that night (what with all the energy being charged to the furnace, he didn’t dare put any more stress on the lines for lighting) with Lovey nestled in his curls - uncharacteristically silent - they had both waited in anticipation for the furnace to either explode or the alloyed claw and palm disks to turn a molten red liquid. Walter had done a shameless victory dance when the latter - and _not_ the former - occurred around 3400 degrees Celsius (indicating tungsten or titanium components, perhaps - he noted). 

Pouring the molten solution into a mold, cooling it, and forming it into joints, fingers, a palm and a wrist had been the next steps - a most torturous process, he’ll admit. When Walter finished it on the third day, he noticed that it was light; but not at all weaker than the former design. 

It looked like a hand this time around and not a killing device… Though he reminded himself not to douse it in glitter or color as he had with his other projects; a difficult feat at first until he began to craft as if being employed to do so (which...He kinda was? But nevermind…) - appealing to what he thought would be Killian’s taste. Walter ended up with a hand largely inspired by _The Terminator_ ; all silver knobs, bars, and small parts working together to create a very strong frame despite the skeletal resemblance. 

The last thing he had done was plate it in certain places to protect the programs he coded in; notably the side cylinders on the forearm and the end canister of the appendage housing all the wirings to the power converter - where it would join at the elbow and Killian’s upper arm. Beyond that, Walter didn’t mind leaving the rest of the bars and rotaries exposed on the top and bottom as they were on the old model; knowing that there would be no way to dislocate or weaponize the machinery from the way he built it. It would not only be a waste of metal but also a shame to cover the fingers, wrist, and mechanical forearm, Walter thought in observing the metalwork. He took a certain amount of pride in the prosthetic’s completion, after all.

Alright, perhaps too much pride. What he truly wanted - _needed_ \- was to see the look on Killian’s face when Walter presented him with his new prosthetic; a _better_ prosthetic - if he had a say in it. Though to his disappointment, both Lance and Marcy had already vehemently denied his access to Killian in any way. Walter wanted to groan every time he recalled the conversation; what - two attempted murders and suddenly his “safety is jeopardized” and “unprecedented contact must be limited”...? Psh. 

Walter was irked even further when he later heard that their plan had been to send someone else down (some Dr. Johnson? Jensen?) to deliver and install the arm - exactly one week before transfer to site-84. In all honesty, Walter didn’t have a conceited character; not at all… But seriously?! He’s just slaved away for the past three days, hasn’t drank a non-caffeinated beverage for the last forty-eight hours, and probably unwittingly sold his soul to some demon or other in exchange for the driver processing unit to debug itself… a-and now they’re just going to let some dude with nothing but a title before his surname swoop in and get all the credit? A Ph.D. isn’t even a quantifiable measure of technical skill! 

Damn it. Johnson, Jensen… Jokes on you! Walter is _not_ about to let that happen. Not if he could help it. He is not going to have Killian think that some nameless lab coat waltzed in and did him a random favor; thanking the wrong person, bonding with the wrong person, praising the wrong person. His breathing is picking up from just thinking about it! It just isn’t fair - not fair at all. At this point, Walter knows the difference between being kind and being a pushover - so he is going to personally meet the cause of his three day’s work or die trying. 

And so it is with this idea that Walter gained the contact information and protocol for access of one Dr. Florian Jackson as well as - by some hacking - the entry code to the private elevators leading to the Detainment Division. He found himself in said elevator a day later with the arm in his backpack; somehow becoming heavier with every level of descent. Lovey - who he never asked to accompany him - made herself comfortable on his head nonetheless - her warmth keeping Walter from fidgeting with the multi-pen tucked into his back pocket. 

After a minute or so, the doors of the elevator finally dinged open and Walter stepped out, eyes adjusting to the whiteness of the hallway. A glass panel - wrapped around a counter stood before him; walling in a tired-looking woman well in her forties. Walter noted that her black hair was tied back in a tight ponytail, and her eyes were obscured by a pair of sunglasses; yet ever glued to the pages of a _Reader’s Digest._ Walter stepped forward and tapped on the glass to get her attention. He felt Lovey flap her wings atop his head in unison at the greeting as well.

“Hey - uh, excuse me-” he cleared his throat as the woman looked up from her magazine. The name tag attached to her lanyard read: _Rita Marcell - On-site Coordinator for levels D-C._ Walter swallowed: “I’m here for an appointment with a TFT you have in cell A-893…”

The woman named Rita blinked, and with a heavy sigh, dropped her book. Walter waited as she swiveled her chair to the monitor sitting on a nearby office table - covered with a pack of cigarettes, cans of soft drinks, various papers, and writing utensils. Reaching over, she navigated her mouse with expertise - pulling up a schedule and squinting above her sunglasses at the displayed list of names and times. The Rita lady scrolled until she reached a particular row.

“You’re… an hour early, Dr. Jackson,” she frowned at him. 

“Yes, well… Something came up,” Walter had to suppress the urge to slap himself at using Marcy’s line. Lance had once warned him that the deadest undercover giveaway for an agency member is vague explanations. This isn’t a movie - H.T.U.V people aren’t stupid enough to _not_ pursue blatant lies. And here he was; oozing with mystery. Great.

“I’m going to need to see some ID, Dr. Jackson,” Rita said, an eyebrow arched.

“Sure - no problem,” Walter managed as nonchalantly as possible. He’s prepared for this; having printed out a false ID the night prior. He hoped his shaking hand was only a figment of his imagination as Walter handed the card over to the woman.

Rita scanned the card with tired eyes, then looked back at Walter, up to the pigeon, then the card again - before handing it back and finally speaking:

“Alright,” she sighed again before picking up a walkie-talkie clipped to her hip. Holding a button on the side, Rita called into it, exhaustion plain in her voice: “Joe! The doctor’s here for McFord.”

A moment of silence left Walter awkwardly shifting his weight from one foot to the next. Minutes that felt like hours ticked away before a short, burly man with round glasses perched atop a mouse-like nose barrelled into the room from a door to the right of the receptionist desk; a door of which Walter had truthfully failed to notice until now. 

The man adjusted his glasses before beaming a smile at Walter, holding out a hand to shake. Walter smiled back warmly - though he was surprised at the strength of the little man’s grip.

“Ah - Good afternoon, Dr. Jackson! It's a pleasure to meet you in person. The name’s Joseph Wilburt - though you can call me Joe. We spoke on the phone,” Wilburt grinned, then paused - pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. His eyes traveled to Lovey sitting atop Walter’s head and Walter could feel her sink deeper into his curls under the man’s piercing gaze: “I must say, you’re a little younger than I expected...”

“Oh...Well, yes,” Walter provided, trying to deepen his voice - though failed miserably; having it come forth as a croak. Desperate, he decided to switch tactics - faking a cough: “It’s been like that for the last couple of days - must have caught something.”

“I see. Flu season, right? Anyway - please, right this way,” the man smoothed out his sweater before gesturing to the passage at the end of the hall. Walter relaxed as the man unlocked the gate for him beyond the reception without further question.

As Walter was led through the facility, he tried to keep an ear on the coordinator beside him; who had begun to brief him on the building’s structure, protocols, security staff on standby, and what he could expect with Killian...

“...We don’t get many visitors down here. These walls? Titanium. Everything’s white for standard security procedure; avoids camouflage of anything or anyone, you know...All gates on level B and above are secured with a passcode, vault lock, and retinol scan... Showers are allowed every three days; the only place we don’t have security cameras - though rest assured, it's a very thoroughly guarded space. The prisoners get a change of clothes after being searched. The norm is a navy jumpsuit with the H.T.U.V seal printed in white on the back; though McFord hasn’t so much as touched that. We left him with the outfit he had on at the time of arrest, and he hasn’t requested anything else since. He’s actually been pretty compliant with everything - and is handling solitary a lot better than some of the others.”

“You… Have him in solitary confinement? For how long?” Walter’s worry might have exceeded itself through his words - at least from the way Wilburt looked at him. Walter cleared his throat: “...Just wondering… Patients in solitary are often a little more difficult to work with…?”

“Ah. Well, he was sent in on the 16th… So I’ll have to say almost two weeks now,” Wilburt counted on his fingers. Walter had to stifle a gasp as he attempted to school his expression. _Two weeks?_ Walter had read about the psychological effects that solitary could have... depression, anxiety attacks, and depreciating sanity from the first 72 hours alone. How could they have put Killian in solitary for _two weeks?!_

“...I understand your concern as a doctor,” Wilburt was saying, his voice dipping a little - forcing Walter to lean in: “But we can assure you that he is perfectly sound. At least mentally.”

“What do you mean?” Walter asked, his throat closing with dread.

“Ah. Well, I guess you’re going to hear it from someone sooner or later…” Wilburt groaned, running a hand through short brown hair. The man looked around in paranoia before continuing: “Earlier today, we had Agent Sterling come in to retrieve the prosthetic arm that McFord was using before his capture; the one that you would be replacing. Mr. Bolshintsov was in charge of the team of five handling the retrieval. Of course, McFord didn’t fancy giving his arm up. Not in the slightest; even managed to send two of Mr. Bolshintsov’s five to the infirmary. He didn’t come out of the fight without a scratch though. That’s all I know about that - so you’ll have to check up on him in addition to installing the new arm...”

The rest of the walk had been in silence; and a maximum of five minutes - when Walter looked up and saw that they had stopped before a wrought metal door; sleek, but solid. On either side of the entrance stood two guards in blocky vests, corners emblazoned with the H.T.U.V seal, and a belt cinched with a holstered handgun. They both clutched a rifle that Walter hoped filled with nothing worse than rubber bullets. 

He swallowed as one of the guards leaned over; placing his eye up against the retinoid scanner as the other patted him down. Lovey had jumped to his shoulders at the motion of the guards waving her off his curls. Walter - had let out a “hey!” at the indignation on Lovey’s behalf - face turning red when the man had laughed at him. Before long, though, Wilburt had punched in a series of numbers and twisted the vault-handle open (albeit with some difficulty). After the patting-down that left Lovey ruffled her feathers in annoyance, Walter was gently pushed into the cell.

“Knock on the door when you’re done - or if you need anything,” Wilburt had called to him one last time before the heavy metal slab locked behind him. 

Walter had expected the room to be dark and damp - but was pleasantly surprised at finding it was actually pretty much an extension of the hallway - lighting, flooring, everything in a standard-sized chamber. His eyes scanned over the furnishings, chair, the cot, and- Oh. 

“ _You._ What are _you_ doing here?” a smooth voice snarled out. Killian was standing near the cot against the far wall of the cell. His good side was turned three-quarters in profile to Walter. The mechanical eye had begun to burn a murderous red. Walter gulped as Killian’s gaze dropped to his right shoulder, eyes narrowing at the little ball of brown and white feathers, staring out fiercely from under his ear: “And you brought...a pigeon?”

Walter, for the first time since conceiving this little endeavor, began to question if this had been just one very, very, bad idea. 

“Her name’s Lovey - she’s my emotional support animal,” Walter shrugged. Lovey’s body moved with Walter’s shoulders; though her head stayed fixed on Killian: “I’m just here with your new prosthetic... you know?” Holding his hands up in a gesture of peace, he tried to take a step closer before noticing Killian tensed; the eye glowing menacingly brighter. Walter froze. 

“Okay! Okay… Just, wait one second,” Walter spoke. He gave Lovey his finger to hop on, then strode over to the nearby cot, his hand hovering over the mattress: “Is it alright if I…?”

Killian scowled, though he didn't move to stop Walter as he lowered Lovey onto the tan covers. Instead, he watched curiously as Walter shouldered his bag off next and dropped to a knee. 

Pulling the zipper open, the young scientist reached in with both hands to withdraw the mechanical arm. The metal of the prosthetic glinted silver in the fluorescents; all its knobs and sharp bars both skeletal and sturdy. Getting up from the floor, Walter held it out with both hands to Killian; who took it carefully; turning it over to examine the metalwork.

“Do you like it?” Walter asked. He puffed his chest out a little as he watched Killian turn it over by the forearm. With his hands folded behind his back, Walter began to rock on the balls of his feet; sneakers squeaking against the white tiles to fill the silence: “It’s for you! I melted down your old prosthetic and installed the same galvanic-cell system you had for the power supply. And also! I integrated the same wirings and everything; except this one’s obviously more like a hand. It’s inspired by _The Terminator_ movie! With Arnold Schwarzenegger? Pretty cool, right - Killian? Do you like it?”

“You-How-” Killian’s eyes widened at Walter before looking back down at the prosthetic in disbelief: “How did you manage to melt my old model? That...That was a vanadium steel alloy reinforced with titanium-”

Walter gasped and hopped in place, pumping his fist in the air and startling Lovey; who batted her wings in alarm on the cot: “I knew it! But - try this one on! I made it two kilos lighter, more flexible but with the same strength capacitor. The magnetic connection mechanism is still the same.”

Killian blinked at him, before flipping the arm with his right hand. With the left sleeve already rolled up, Walter noticed that his arm ended an inch above the elbow; in which a metallic band surrounded the bicep and capped the ending. Raising the prosthetic to the base of the cap, Walter watched as Killian activated the magnetic locking portal and the prosthetic shot into place with a satisfying _clack._ Twisting the knobs on the side of the band back into his arm, Killian then tapped a pressure plate located on the underside of the inner arm. When the mechanism surged to life, Walter sighed in relief.

Killian hissed out a breath as he turned the hand; closing and extending the fingers and noticed, pleasantly, at the lack of delay. He rotated the wrist, twisting it, and realized that the kid was right. It _was_ a lot lighter - and flexible; rubbing the mechanical fingers together to hear the click of metal against each other. It barely made a sound when he moved the digits too; indicating a good polishing and assembly. Though staring at the somewhat skeletal construct, one thing perplexed him…

“You said that it’s got the same strength capacitor?” Killian murmured, flexing the fingers: “Seventeen hundred in PSI?” 

“Yup! Though I don’t know why you would even need it to be that strong…” Walter responded with a nervous sheen to his voice: “That’s enough to crush bone-”

But before he could finish his thought out loud, Killian had turned, and in one fluid motion quicker than the blink of an eye, raked the metallic hand across the steel panels of the cell wall. A small flurry of sparks flew from metal on metal - along with a screech nearly as loud as Walter’s yelp. 

“Don’t do that!” he leaped forwards, grabbing Killian by the left wrist. The man froze and Walter’s heart nearly stopped when he realized what he'd done. 

But instead of being flung away and dismembered on the spot as he expected, there was only a second of awkward silence as he let Killian go, backing away slowly. 

“What? Afraid that I’ll break it?” Killian smirked - cutting through the silence, a brow raised as he turned the hand over again.

Walter gulped. “Not exactly… More like it’ll break you? Only if you exceed a force threshold. Sorry, but I installed the program for security purposes. Though I wasn’t lying when I said it definitely packs seventeen hundred PSI - and could easily crush bone…. It’s based on your old model, after all. But if you try crushing anything denser than a soda can now, it’ll self-neutralize.”

Walter watched as something akin to fear flitted across Killian’s face with the widening of his eyes. Walter quickly added:

“Just for sixty seconds! Then it’s good as new; though your arm might feel a little sore for another few minutes after it neutralizes; haven’t gotten the bugs fully out of that part yet...”

Walter paused and rubbed the back of his neck, looking at Killian worriedly, who was staring at him like a hawk - before a quiet laugh broke through the air. It sounded very much like the laugh he had when Walter had thrown breadcrumbs at him weeks ago, in Venice; except with a much colder lilt - a threat.

“Of course,” the chuckles faded. Killian turned the left side of his face to Walter; though his mechanical eye had faded to a silvery blue: “And who put you up to this, kid? Was it Sterling?”

Walter huffed out a breath of indignation, a redness coloring his cheeks:

“No. And my name’s Walter. Walter Beckett,” he answered as forcibly as possible, desperately trying to expel the crack in his voice as the man’s eyes narrowed: “Look Killian, If you don’t like the arm that’s okay. I just wanted to check on you…and deliver it. I worked really hard on it and, truth be told, I shouldn’t even be here in the first place, you know...So yeah. Anyway… It’s probably best if I just get going now-” 

Walter had dropped to the ground and was beginning to zip up his backpack, his heart pounding - shame and disappointment rushing through him. That is until he heard a mumble from the other man: 

“I do like it.” Killian had said. Walter looked up - afraid that he had heard him wrong.

“What?”

“The arm. It’s nice. You didn’t scrap the old metal alloy even if it would’ve been easier. And… You’re right. It’s flexible. Strong. Lighter, too.” Killian was saying as Walter gaped at him. He met his eyes in earnest for a few seconds before looking away - as if what he saw in Walter’s expression embarrassed him. The boy was _gushing,_ after all.

“Thanks. For both the arm… and saving my life,” Killian finally choked out, then looked away again. It was a long overdue note of gratitude, anyway. To be honest, he never knew if the kid had died from the fall; and neither would Killian have lost a single night’s sleep over it if it hadn’t been for that damned act of heroism. And now this arm… When would he ever be out of Walter’s debt? 

Nevertheless, Killian couldn’t bear watching the glee spread across the other’s face. Seeing it would only further solidify what he said - and feel about owing him his life. So Killian turned his eyes away from the kid; and it was the action that robbed him of all warnings when Walter barreled into him with a hug.

“You’re welcome!” Walter cried, wrapping his arms around Killian’s waist wholeheartedly. Walter turned his face to the side - smushed against the man’s chest - before giving him a small squeeze… Then immediately recoiled when Killian gasped in pain.

“Are you okay? Did I-” Walter’s voice rose.

“Yeah, yeah - I’m fine.” Walter felt gently pushed back as Killian stepped away from him, lightly sitting down on the cot, his right hand clutching his ribs delicately. Lovey fluttered away in alarm at the mattress dipping - gliding through the air and settling back on Walter’s shoulder. 

Rushing over to Killian, Walter had crouched down in front of him; watching intently as the man’s breathing gradually steadied, though his hand never left his ribs. The words of Joseph Wilburt rushed back at him and Walter felt his stomach churn. Wilburt had told “the doctor” to check on Killian’s inflicted injuries; Walter bet this was what he was talking about.

“I heard that you fought Bolshintsov? Earlier today?” Walter gulped - thinking back to the bulky giant that was the Detainment Division’s corporal manager. Whatever occurred, it must have hurt. 

Killian sneered, lips pulled back to reveal, sharp, white canines: “More like Bolshinstov and five of his goons fought me.”

“Oh... How are you feeling?” Walter asked. Killian frowned and cocked his head, listening - _waiting_ \- for an underlying tone of sarcasm; a bite of mockery, perhaps. It never came. He answered defensively nonetheless.

“Like I beat the living daylights out of two of them,” Killian growled, forcing his hand to leave his right side and prop his frame up by the edge of the cot - leaning towards Walter aggressively. The pigeon cooed and puffed up her wings… But the kid held his ground; indicating that he was either a really good actor or just stupidly brave.

This wasn't going anywhere. Blatantly ignoring Killian’s thinly veiled threat, Walter’s eyes dropped to the base of his ribs.

“Alright. Hold still. I’m going to just …”

Walter took a deep breath, and before he could chicken out (or think this through, really), he reached his hand out to press his fingers along the base of Killian’s ribs through his shirt. A small wince and shift of muscle against his touch partially confirmed Walter’s suspicions. It was a good thing that Killian was stubborn enough to refuse to flinch away - even if he tensed considerably. 

“Is it only your ribs?” Walter asked following the reaction. A soft scoff was heard above him as Killian wordlessly undid one more button at the top of his shirt to reveal a fist-shaped bruise forming an inch below his collarbone. Walter drew in a sharp breath: “Just bruises?” 

A nod. Walter sighed, nerves a little alleviated at that. He studied the injury a little and wondered at the placement. Either Bolshintsov was holding back or Killian had anticipated the hit, but it was insanely lucky that the fist had not impacted with the clavicle or Walter wouldn’t be here just to replace an arm. As for the ribs...Well, they’ll hurt for a day or two - but it wasn’t the end of the world. The important thing was that nothing’s broken.

As Walter was relaying this to Killian, he had also been spreading his palm out; applying pressure to test the extent of the injury on the ribs. Based on the few grimaces and a rare cringe followed by a nasty curse, Walter could guess that there had been a booted impact of some sort; larger but dispersed. 

“Right. It’s just some bruising...I don’t have any Tylenol or ibuprofen with me right now but I can send someone down with them. Just take it easy for the next few days, okay?” Walter had finalized as he stood, heaving the backpack on and getting ready to go, Lovey now back on top of his head. 

But right as he turned to knock on the door, Killian had barked out one last question…

“Why did you do it?” he asked in a burst. Walter whirled around, brows raised in confusion.

“What?”

Killian’s voice swayed a little; the smooth, Australian accent undercut by a tone of desperation and something that was both lost and furious: “Why did you save me, make me this arm? Why any of this? It makes no sense. You owe me nothing...kid-Walter. Walter. I mean, I’ve tried to kill you more than once and _every single person_ you work with. So - why are you doing all of this for me? What do you want from me?”

The look on his face was that of a cornered animal. A mixture of fear and fury topped by uncertainty stared out from hollow eyes. The contrast between the emotion featured on his right side and the stiffness on his left made the silicon plates seem more prison-like than an aid. Walter felt a tightening against his sternum as he stared at the desperate gaze, wide as searchlights. His heart broke when met by that voice- once so impassive; now so pained.

“I don’t know,” Walter admitted before he could stop himself: “I really don’t, Killian. Maybe I just don’t like seeing people hurt - no matter who they are. Even you. I-I’m sorry.”

And with that, Walter turned and left as quickly as he could, Lovey’s warmth permeating through his hair as he broke from the whiteness of the hall.

There was silence in cell A-893 for a time after that, and if anybody heard soft, broken sobs through an Inconel door - it certainly wasn’t on protocol to respond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was actually very, very difficult to get through; but it's all going to be worth it... Dear lord please let it be worth it - because the next chapter is going to be really, really intense. Dare I say...The climax? OWO  
> Now, can I just...  
> \- Walter is so freaking adorable?!?!?! I have a feeling that approval is quintessential to him when it comes to his inventions; to a point where he started tearing up when Lance called him and his gadgets "weird" in the movie. So what drove him to Killian is actually just his utter need for validation of his work for him; a need so strong it triumphs over his regard for his personal safety. Also, his cinnamon-roll-qualities makes him perceive Killian as less like a criminal mastermind and more like an angsty uncle lmao
> 
> \- I'm really sorry if the writing in this chapter is choppy or sounds like I got an aneurysm 1/2-way through it. I literally don't know why. Once in a while, I just forget how to write words. 
> 
> I also just got on discord today :) - I'm on instagram too (@lesdessinsdiaboliques); where I've made a piece of Killian art a week ago or so... Just adding this here as an afterthought/or something you guys can check out while waiting for the next chapter! <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone's in this one, bruh.

_ “To the left! No - my left! Your right!”  _ Walter’s voice blared out. __

“How would I have known- nevermind! Incoming!” Lance shouted at the drone buzzing in front of him; ducking behind a rusted pillar just in time to avoid being incinerated by a plume of fire. He felt the residual heat singe the space he had been - barreling through his jacket like an oven come to life.

“Why couldn’t Joyless send someone else for this job?” Lance groaned, breathless as he wiped a sheen of sweat from his face: “I mean - all I ask is just one weekend off. Just one!”

Lance could almost hear the shrug in Walter’s voice through the drone in front of him. If he closed his eyes, Lance could even imagine the young scientist back in Washington, sitting in a no doubt tailored, cured-leather operations seat with a soft drink in hand, fingers resting on a motion-sensitive keyboard; conducting and witnessing his surroundings like a video-game. His envious thoughts were interrupted when the drone spoke again. Though it was not Walter that this time, but Director Jenkins herself:

_ “I know Lance - but we don’t have any agents available on duty now… You of all people should know how it’s been!” _

Lance supposed that he did. 

Though it was less of a shortage in agents than it was a surplus of crime… At least since they took down Katsu Kimura. 

Not a surprise on the agency’s part. The yakuza had controlled a global share in everything - until their collapse. And as it was with the collapse of a star, a black hole often followed. In the yakuza’s case, it became a power vortex established by smaller gangs on the borders picking at the unbacked shares and undefended resources of Kimura as vultures picked at carrion. And oh how plentiful the bounty! With their stakes in weapon dealings and business in gambling, Kimura had financed the yakuza’s criminal activity through an elaborate, underground network of investments in mining, breweries, banking, manual labor… And particularly now - the harvesting of natural gas. 

It was common knowledge to the agency that Brazil is the largest energy consumer in all of South America - as well as the location of the GASUN pipeline stretching from Bolivia to the northern Amazon and northeast Brazilian states .  Unfortunately for Lance, this also meant that it was not only a prime target for agents on vacation but also a concentrated area for crime and hijacking of such valued resources. The GASUN pipeline is one of the largest structure for the transport of petroleum and natural gas in the world; impossible to federally guard on all fronts - what with it being five thousand kilometers long. 

That would not have concerned him if not for the fact that a section of the GASUN had been tapped into by the yakuza a decade ago. Except now with the yakuza’s fall - it seemed that bordering criminal-higher-power-wannabes had dropped in and secured the tap. Thus, what had been once managed relatively with no dangers to the public; or more appropriately - lost tourists - was now on the agency’s radar - and also - new ownership. So saying, it became a liable offense eventually when agency satellite surveillance reported the barbecuing of a couple on a nature walk, three miles from Campo Grande in southwest Brazil. 

And what a grande way they went. Forensics and footage were sent to Lance two hours after the scene; which showed what looked like five robotic sprinklers fashioned atop a length of tubing. The tubing was clearly tapped into the GASUN before extending to a large barrel; around five meters high and two meters in diameter. From the footage, it was clear that the couple had unwittingly stumbled across the barrel. Intrigued by the setup, they had rounded it to examine the secondary pipeline. But when they realized the hostility of the equipment, it had been too late. The robotic sprinklers seemed to be activated through proximity sensors and guided by motion detectors. Tapped into the fuel of the secondary pipeline they were situated on, they had sprung open with a column of fire directed at the poor duo. 

Being burned alive may be one of the most horrendous ways to go, Lance thought as he had watched the agonizing seconds pass by on screen - the two writhing in distress, rolling on the ground, throats hollering out soundless screams (he had his laptop on mute). Lance had felt sick - it was  _ sick _ . Fellow agents injured in flame-related accidents had reported it being the most painful sensation they had ever felt in their lives and could not wish it for their worst enemy. But they were the lucky ones for more had not lived to tell the tale. With that in mind, Lance had almost been relieved when the two ceased in their struggle. With the pipeline defended, the watchful fire-sprinklers had retracted back into the tubing; leaving Lance dreading what’s to come.

Not that he had to wait long. Shortly after being sent the case file, Lance was tasked with a new mission objective - travel to section-234 of the GASUN, three miles east of Campo Grande, disable the defenses on the secondary pipeline, set up local surveillance and resources for a recon team to arrive on Monday and return to Washington in time for the CROP meeting on Thursday. He himself would stay in the Campo Grande agency-booked inn throughout Sunday night and leave Monday morning for the recon team to take over. Easy. No problem. He’s  _ Lance  _ freakin’  _ Sterling.  _ Of course, he could do it!

Step one was complete. Lance had gotten to the site - a piece of grassland accentuated by hills and a few thickets. The GASUN pipeline sat at the edge of one thicket so dense, Lance was sure he would be stuck for good if he had not dressed accordingly. Supported by pillars that have clearly seen better days, he was now in the midst of step two - disabling five fire-breathing monstrosities of technology. 

“ _ Clear! Head to the northeast pillar; five steps to  _ your _ left. There’s a CPU wire box supplying the programming of the weaponry,”  _ Walter’s voice shrieked out from the drone: “ _ They’re connected in series; so cut any of the wirings and you’ll have all five down.” _

“Sure. And will I be out of range at the CPU?” Lance called back - peeking out from behind the support beam to see the sprinklers whirling around, scanning the surroundings.

_ “Uh...Not exactly. But you’ll figure it out, right?”  _

Lance sighed in exasperation - what a job. Plucking a smoke capsule from his vest - Lance tossed it towards the secondary pipeline. It broke upon landing right beneath the second to last flamethrower; a dense, white mist infusing into the air within seconds. 

Lance dove from beneath the pillar and entered the fog at a low crouch. With the buzzing of the baseball-sized drone hovering somewhere to his right, he crept along as quickly as he could. There were only two ways to the CPU wire box. Lance could round the giant fuel barrel; a longer route but one that would take him further from the threat. The other method would be a third of the distance - to go directly underneath the secondary pipeline and wind up on the other side; passing below the weaponry and praying that it would not trigger a hostile response. 

Problem is, Lance did not anticipate how quickly the smoke bomb would diffuse as it was a new model - constructed by Walter (from the specks of glitter he could see reflecting in the mist). With this concern, Lance picked the latter, quicker option. When the long, stick-like, secondary pipeline appeared through the white plumes, Lance dove under it; coming out the other side; barely daring to breathe. The drone to his right hummed quietly.

“Alright, I’m on the northeast side; can’t see through the smoke - where’s the CPU?”

Walter’s voice came in, hushed:  _ “You’re close! It’s twenty steps to your right - between the third and fourth sprinkler-” _

Static - then Lance felt the column of fire before he saw it light up the ground a foot before him - burning through the mist like a small, targeted explosion. Instinct made him toss himself to the side; though the smell of singed grass kept him on his feet. 

_ “You’re in range, Lance! Get OUT OF THERE! GO! NOW!”  _ He heard vaguely as he scrambled up. Lance ran beneath the pipeline as plumes of smoke and fire rose from either side of his path - the angry roars of the weaponry bellowing above him like a blazing beast. He raced forwards - counting his steps carefully in the haze of fog intermingled with bursts of crimson heat before stopping at another support beam - this one smaller than the last.

“I’m in position!”

The drone was hovering closer to him - the sheets of fire on either side pouring down incessantly.

_ “Great! Okay - do you see the box on the ground near that support beam to your left? It’s locked but inside, there’s a length of red, white, and yellow wires. Oh, and a blue button. Cut any of the wires - but don’t touch the button unless you want the whole system to blow…” _

The mechanism was a simple file cabinet lock which Lance was able to pick in under a minute. Springing the lid open, he extracted a lapel pin; activating it into a wire cutter. Careful to pry the wires away from the button glaring an ominous navy up at him, Lance wasted no time in pulling out a yellow wire and closing the lapel pin around its length. He snipped it clean.

With that, Lance could hear the gasoline pumps and roar of the weaponry fading above the pipeline. Saved for the crackling of the fires around the grassy plain sending charcoal plumes into the air that overwhelmed Walter’s smoke bomb, Lance could felt nothing above him. Nevertheless, he froze in the ensuing silence - nerves still taut as a bowstring until the drone next to him hummed.

_ “Mission objective achieved,” _ Joyless was saying:  _ “You may return to the vantage point now, Agent. Enjoy the rest of your vacation.” _

Lance sighed heavily as he got up, knees cracking a little.  _ Vacation? _ He had caught the faint snickers on the end of the line as the drone dispatched - humming away from the pipelines. True vacations for H.T.U.V agents are about as believable as unicorns and Santa Claus. If it wasn’t a “recommendation” from Director Jenkins to visit a resort - knowingly infiltrated by some criminal power that becomes an objective of take-down two days in, it was a sudden on-call that ruined an afternoon of bathing on the Brazilian beaches of S ão  Paulo. 

But at least this wasn’t an extended trip. Even if Lance was sure that Joy had other missions for him back at HQ - at least it wouldn’t be under the pretense of  _ vacation _ . It was with that in mind that Lance hopped back in his car and punched in the coordinates for an obscure inn near Campo Grande to carry out the rest of this getaway.

* * *

Internal affairs wasn’t an easy job by any means, Marcy will admit. 

Known affectionately as the “Caesar Salad of the Divisions”, she was often tasked with juggling a multitude of c omplaints, disciplines, investigations, demanding individuals, laws & internal policies. Not that she had any outstanding protests - Marcy loved her job…

Well for the most part; but not always. Not now. For as she sat in her carpeted office, furnished with all the comforts she could squeeze in, Marcy began to contemplate - not for the first time - how much she'd rather do  _ anything else  _ than reading and sorting the prisoner reports Jenga-ing their way to the ceiling. 

Thumbing through the files for inconsistencies before transfer to the archives was nevertheless one of her duties in internal affairs. Not that Marcy ever understood why IA had to handle this stuff… Though it might be the same reason why people have kitchen cupboards full of plastic bags; hoarded and leftover from supermarket runs. Is the magnitude of such a resource necessary? Absolute not. Is it a hereditary trait dominated by mass psychosis? Possibly. A desperate bid for control in one’s life and overkill in preparation for a very unlikely “what if”? Almost certain. Such was the agency policy towards providing weekly reports of prisoner activity; of which Marcy found just as vehemently useful as fifty plastic bags in one kitchen cabinet-

Her contemplations were cut short when a sheet of paper caught her eye. Stuck between the wine-red laminated folder of reports with requests to be reviewed and most urgently met (and of which was more often than not - empty), Marcy drew out the sheet. She scanned it silently until she reached a line of words near the bottom - highlighted in a bright yellow. 

Reading it - Marcy audibly swallowed and rose from her seat. Reaching over her desk, she began to look for a particular stack of papers - pushing a series of folders, binders, and notebooks out of the way. When she found it, Marcy threw the clip open and began to funnel through the pages in a process of reading, stopping and jotting down notes. An hour inched by...then two, and three - until she stopped, sighing in satisfaction and gathering up the collection of information - gold filtered from the mudslide. 

Shoving the sheets in a binder, Marcy made her way out of her office - moving through the halls of internal affairs like a shark through schools of fish; lingering only at the threshold of the H.T.U.V Command Chamber for a brief knock. Entering with a bundle of files under her arm, Marcy gathered her wits. 

If she was right,  _ someone _ might very well get quadruple-fired.

* * *

Walter had a bad feeling about today -  _ Wednesday;  _ a most difficult day of the week; smack in the middle of everything. Wednesdays were always sandwiched between a need to move on from the past weekend’s relaxation and desperate bids for time to speed him through the rest of the week. Nothing was longer. If anything bad was to happen, it would be on a Wednesday- the purgatory of the calendar, and today was no exception.

Walter barely remembered the walk down to the agency council room; not between his knees shaking like a newborn deer’s and his palms so sticky with sweat they could’ve probably acted as effective mouse traps. It didn’t help that the room they were to meet in was gigantic - similar to the MIT lecture halls he had attended in the past. 

But at least it was flat and carpeted - with an oak table in the center and multiple seats dominating the length. Joy was sitting at the end - furthest from the wall covered by theater-sized panels of dark flatscreens. A row of lights beamed rays of white from the ceiling - transporting Walter to a space with the same energy as a posh dentist’s office.

Though what the room looked like dropped from his mind as soon as his eyes settled on Joy - who waved him in as he pushed the heavy glass door open. Walter could swear that she looked… Angry? Disappointed? Or maybe that was just Marcy standing next to her - arms on her hips and lips drawn in a thin frown. When Walter’s mouth dropped open to ask what’s going on (he had ideas, though play dumb...right?) - she shook her head at him sharply. 

His mouth snapped shut just as quick - resorting to standing on one side, hands shoved into his pockets to avoid fidgeting with his fingers. Realizing that it might seem rude, Walter had drawn his hands out just as quick; settling on placing them clasped in front of him. It took only a second for him to realize how awkward that must look - and so he had quickly drawn them behind him as he shifted uneasily on his feet - glad that the carpet was muffling the rubber of his snickers shuffling around.

The silence felt stifling as Walter looked expectantly at Joy. The Director had her arms crossed, brows furrowed and eyes cast downwards at sheets of paper spread across the table in front of her. When she finally looked up, her gaze was not so much a glare as it was a concentrated glance of disapproval that made Walter wish he could become one with the floor. He sufficed with dropping his eyes to it.

“I’m sure you know why I called you in here today,” Joy gritted out, fixing Walter in a steely gaze - eyes flashing behind her brown rimmed, rectangular spectacles: “Internal affairs has reported a series of incongruent data from the visits timetable of one Tristan McFord. You know him as Killian. We’ve contacted Detainment to fact check that the “doctor” who was supposed to check on him arrived an hour early last week… And somehow matched your physicality  _ exactly -  _ accompanied by a pigeon. Another Dr. Jackson dropped in later at the appointed time after that, but was denied entry and bloody hell - did Detainment get a rise out of that. Breach of a direct order from an Executive Command, impersonation, unlawful distribution of possible weaponry to a maximum-security inmate, class-C treason… Walter Beckett - do you have  _ anything _ to say for yourself?”

Walter flinched at the rise in Joy’s voice as the list went on. Under her scrutiny, however… he felt almost inclined to provide an answer; anything than just stand there glassy-eyed! If Walter was going to be fired, no better place for his last stand to be than here.

“Alright -  _ yes;  _ I went to see Killian - but only to give him the arm! The new prosthetic that  _ I  _ made? Yeah I know, Marcy; you and Lance both told me,  _ no _ and to “ _ stay as far away from him as possible _ ” what with the “ _ he tried to kill you _ ” thing… I get it! But c’mon- you guys had Killian in solitary for two weeks! That’s terrible! Inhumane!” Walter froze, realizing that the worry on Joy and Marcy’s face was becoming less of a reaction to his words - but more so the way that he was hyperventilating, just a little. But seeing as they haven’t interrupted his awful speech, Walter found that it was safe to keep going. He took a deep breath:

“Look - I-I’m sorry about the treason… Though the arm I gave him has a lot more agency precautions than his last. It’ll neutralize if it exceeds a force threshold, contains a tracking device and I made it just as you asked-” Walter gestured wildly at Marcy, waving both hands in the air before rubbing them against his face in exasperation. He wasn’t even sure what he was saying at this point: “-no ulterior weaponry at all. Well, I mean - it’s still quite strong... Can probably powder a human femur… But only if you want a human femur powdered. Besides the point, though! I installed some really cool features - like a compartmentalized corkscrew that springs out on the side of the palm once activated! Lance told me that Killian likes champagne...”

“What-” Marcy huffed out. Too late. Walter was on a roll.

“...Alright, alright - if you’re going to fire me, that’s okay, I guess I understand,” he huffed out quicker, voice high in hysterics: “Just, don’t punish Killian. It was my decision to go visit him, he had nothing to do with it. Oh! And I also promised him some Tylenol; if you could deliver it. It’s for the bruises… I don’t know… You’re going to ask me why I went... I just wanted to have one last conversation with him... Give him a parting gift that I worked  _ really hard _ on. Th-that’s all.”

Walter dug his feet in the carpet, eyes cast downwards, feeling the gazes of Joyless and Marcy on him - bright as searchlights. The giant room felt very small, all of a sudden. He worked to steady his breathing.

“Walter, we’re not firing you,” Marcy piped up. Her tone was soft. Walter flinched nonetheless.

“Huh?”

“Your job is safe. We didn’t call you down to fire you,” she repeated. Walter glanced from Marcy to Joy - who looked stern, even as something alarmingly close to amusement hovered in her eyes. The pounding in his chest fought to die down even as Marcy began to pull apart sheets of paper, sliding some across the desk before looking up.

“We’re just happy you aren’t hurt in contacting him… But whatever you said to him in that exchange, we’ve got to know. And possibly fix...” Marcy sighed, brushing a hand through her hair - tied back as it were. Walter frowned.

“Why-? I didn’t… Wait - what do you mean?”

Joy pursed her lips and stepped in, voice grim: “No easy way to put it, Beckett. Timeline shows that after your visit, McFord hasn’t touched a single meal in the past seventy-eight hours. He’s been drinking barely a cup of water a day and surveillance shows that he’s sleeping for less than three hours a night - since Monday.”

Walter felt his throat close up -  _ what? _ This had to be a joke… right? He heard himself ask why.

“That’s what we’re hoping you could tell us,” Marcy breathed: “Walter - you know him. Well, better than us, I suppose. There’s no way we could transfer Killian to max security in this state; he’s got, enemies…And well… I don’t think he could be planning anything that would ultimately benefit him by…By… I don’t know.”

Walter tilted his head to one side, both puzzled and weary as he stared at the Director and the Agent: “What could I do? It’s  _ Killian. _ I doubt anything I  _ said _ could get him to...you know. Oh my goodness. I guess it could be a short circuit? Or maybe a programming issue in the prosthetic that’s messing up his metabolism…? I coded to prevent that though.”

“In any case, I’m pairing you up with Marcy’s team; Eyes and Ears. Go meet with McFord as soon as possible,” Joy finalized, drawing out her phone - no doubt sending a message to Detainment: “You’re to find out the meaning of this. McFord doesn’t step foot out of this facility otherwise. Understood?”

Walter believed that he momentarily turned into a bobble-head, as Marcy hummed out an affirmation, striding to the door and waving for Walter to follow. Walter trailed after her at a pace almost relative to the pounding in his chest; the glass door on his way out somehow heavier than before.

* * *

Killian was lonely; and it showed. Oh  _ god _ , how he hated that it showed - and so easily too. All it took was one scrawny, fluffy-haired boy with bright,  _ naive,  _ puppy-dog eyes and a tawny pigeon. Yeah, yeah… He supposed the pigeon helped too - something about the unfeeling hatred towards him locked in a clump of feathers radiating supposed warmth and compassion reminded Killian a little of the Sirens - identical twin sisters heading the mafia syndicate that dominated Peru. 

He tried to recall their names - Selena and Sophia Contreras Velez; of the Velez crime family. Killian smiled at the memory of the two women who he had brokered a large sum of the family’s pharmaceuticals with for some...Ah… Favors from him; nothing too big. A body buried here, a bounty hunted there. Strictly business; as it was with all his criminal acquaintances. 

Not that those memories provided much solace anymore. They were shadows, and shadows did not exist where the walls were white and the light so mercilessly constant he had to keep himself from clawing his eyes out for a moment of rest. 

But even with all that, Killian didn’t mind solitary. Truth be told, it was that  _ damn _ kid - Walter. To have someone point out that they had no reasoning (and  _ no - _ “disliking death _ ”  _ isn’t going to cut it. Don’t people kill cockroaches nonetheless - even if they “dislike death _ ” _ ?) to save his life nor explanation for what they now wish he owed them? Killian would rather be waterboarded.

That wasn’t even the worst of it, though. It was relatively easy to combat existential dread; which was an abstract concept - shoving it down where the sun doesn't shine would often do the trick just fine. A practiced feat, for Killian. Except Walter’s visit hadn’t only been that. It had reminded him of life beyond the concrete and steel confines Killian had been pacing. It was the only visit he had that mattered and struck him so - a distress developed that no number of Bolshintsovs and his guards could compare. 

To Killian, Bolshintsov and every guard under the agency in Detainment were as imprisoned as he was - if not more pathetically, as they actually  _ chose  _ to be stuck here. But unlike Bolshintsov, Walter’s visit had reminded Killian of the fact that  _ life  _ went on outside this cell for Sterling and all the other maggots bred under the agency’s seal and conduct. Life that they did not deserve - not for what they’d done. Not for their ignorance, for the pain, they’ve cost him. Digging his metallic hand into the mattress, Killian satisfied himself with imagining it to be the flesh of Sterling. He further entertained the sound of the plastic covering squeaking under his grasp as begging wails of those that have wronged him. 

Not for the first time, Killian regretted not killing the kid when he had the chance. He thought of Walter squirming beneath his heel like a worm back on the polished stones of the Venice dock.  _ Should’ve crushed him _ \- he thought; if he had, Sterling would be dead. If he had, the agency would be in ruins. If he had, he would not be here now, obsessing over the “if”s, wishing for vengeance that had been practically handed to him-

“Identification?”

Someone was outside the door. Killian stood and was surprised to find that his head spun a little. He dropped back down on the cot and listened. A moment of silence, then- 

“Marcy Kappel - Internal Affairs and this here is  _ not _ Dr. Jackson. It’s Walter Beckett. My team - Eyes, Ears - have Director’s orders for access.”

Killian heard a soft sigh of approval from one of the guards. A vault handle clicked its way around a mounting plate before the door to the cell cracked open and in walked… Four people? 

Killian didn’t bother getting up. He only watched passively as Walter - backpack on his shoulders, a woman that looked  _ very _ familiar and two individuals laden with tech strode in. He spared only a moment’s notice at “Eyes” - a redhead in a yellow bomber, spectacles taking up the majority of her face - and “Ears” - a short man in plate-sized headphones, wearing a hat so low it hid most of his face above his nose. 

The short man had begun to approach him, nose twitching beneath the brim of his hat. The redheaded girl in the giant glasses stood not far behind him, a hand held up to the frame of her glasses. 

Killian forced himself to stand his ground, though his breathing raced as the short man leaned in far too close for his liking. 

“Aww, man… Look-it! Practically soundless mechanical surrogates for the optical nerve...?” he gasped: “...That’s insane, dude.”

“And that wiring!” The redhead blurted out from behind the man: “Flawless. The plating, the build on the skin - I mean, have you ever seen anything like that?” 

“Alright, guys. Stand down,” the agent ordered and the two retreated behind the serious, suit-clad lady. And lucky they were for that too. Killian was about to snap at them for  _ daring _ …

Well, at least until his gaze made its way around the room to land on Walter. Murderous intent was suddenly diluted to simmering annoyance at the kid standing with his arms folded behind his back, gaze flickering from Killian to the open door of the cell nervously. The room had fallen silent. 

“What do you want now?” Killian growled at him, and almost grinned at the flicker of discomfort across the scientist’s face at the venom in his tone: “Here to snap a collar around my neck?” 

Before Walter could form a response, the agent (Marcy Kappel, apparently) sneered out, voice projected in a way Killian wasn’t sure was meant to provoke or protect:

“If you want,” she tossed out, green eyes filled with a subtle ferocity - nudging Walter forward until they stood side by side. Recognition churned within Killian, quickly overflowed by amusement.

“You’re the one with the five cats...,” he stated, eyes widening - followed by a huff of a chuckle: “What was it again? Jon, Joey, Jordan, Donnie, Danny-”

“Alright, okay! Enough!” the agent hissed; though more embarrassed than angry, if Killian had to guess. She turned to Walter and her voice immediately softened: “Well, go on...”

“Oh...Right. Cool, yeah,” the kid rambled, shuffling forwards as if on trial. Killian had to suppress the urge to roll his eyes. “So, like…How are you feeling?” 

A laugh nearly tore out of him - but he settled on sarcasm sinking into his words when he spoke: “Wonderful - truly. A really healthy environment to be in, you know. Happiest I’ve ever been.”

Between Walter’s stare and Marcy’s glare, Killian could only toss a mocking grin back - letting his sharp upper incisors fall on display.  _ Try me _ \- was the message.

“That’s not true,” Walter sighed, stepping forward. Killian straightened, squaring his shoulders and tilting his head up at the boy, his gaze sharp - his grin fading to a scowl. Much to his displeasure, the boy didn’t seem at all fazed: “I want to help, Killian. Please. We know you’re not eating… And barely sleeping. Is it the arm? I had a feeling that I might have coded the metabolism key into overdrive or just misplaced a program. If it’s a bug, we gotta fix it as soon as possible and restore-”

“It’s not the arm,” Killian cut him short, realizing his voice sounded a little dry. But goodness…? This was about  _ meals _ of all things?! Sure, he had skipped a few… Maybe for some days. Sleep had been difficult to achieve as well - couldn’t even remember the last time he had a full night’s rest. Though why would that suddenly matter to the agency unless…

Killian mentally went over the number of days since he was first arrested. It was the third week; practically Wednesday evening, if he wasn’t mistaken. Ah. So that’s why. They were getting ready for transport, and somehow a little fasting on his end right around this time had sent the agency in a frenzied twiddling of their thumbs. Just when Killian thought they couldn’t get more pathetic…

“What? Then- Are you sick, maybe?” Walter asked in a concern that couldn’t be faked, he thought with disgust: “I’m not a doctor but we can maybe get someone in? Anything that you might need, Killian - you just ask!” 

_ I need you to have died on that dock three weeks ago,  _ Killian thought, heart pounding fiercely in his chest:  _ I need your agency to burn to the ground, and Sterling’s head on a pike. Could you do that for me, Walter? No? Now, what if I ask nicely?  _

But the sane part of him took over before he could let  _ that _ slip. What he really heard was an opportunity. The kid was, with every word, confirming that Killian had an advantage - a bargaining chip. They needed him to cooperate, that part was clear, and in return? Killian really only wanted one thing… Well, one person. 

“I’ll like to speak with Sterling,” he spoke before he could really phrase it nastier, and cringed when Walter’s face lit up. 

“Lance?” A grin spread across his face. Killian would’ve puked if there was anything in his stomach. Walter dragged a hand through brown locks: “Sure! He might be in the facility right now…! I could go get him-”

“Now, hold on a minute,” Kappel broke in - green eyes narrowed in suspicion: “Last time you and Lance were within speaking distance of each other you tried to kill him...”

So the agent has some brains  _ and  _ brawn, he thought - thinking back to the fight in the ruins and the lingering pain of that drone slamming into his skull. Killian had to bite back a retort in fixing her with his gaze. 

“You’re going to have to be more convincing than that,” he said in a tone bored as he could muster: “In case you forgot, I tried to kill everyone you know. Not that there could be a lot... Who has time for friends when you’ve got five boxes of shit to shovel at home? Or is it just one box, landfill-sized?” 

“Oh - as if you’re just swimming in acquaintances,” Marcy snarled, then before she could stop herself: “Where are all your friends, huh? Left them in Kyrgyzstan?”

Killian froze, his eyes widening - blue trained on green… Except his left eye had begun to fade; the mechanic iris turning from rich sapphire to a greyish-teal. The room became stifling silent.

“...That was low, dude,” Ears eventually hummed beneath his breath. Eyes was shaking her head and Walter- Well, Walter was staring at her as if she’s just admitted to skinning a puppy. 

Marcy sucked in a breath: “Killian - I’m sorry. That was… I shouldn’t have-”

“Are you going to bring me Sterling or not?” Killian cut in, voice a little more tired than it should have been. He refused to meet her gaze. He wasn’t going to acknowledge what she said - not until he could see the life drain from the agency. He’ll remember though, and when he burns the place to the ground, she’ll  _ know _ the debt has been paid. 

“Yeah. Sure, I suppose. Not here though,” desperate to move on from that, Marcy gestured for the other three to begin filing out the room. Killian stood, ignoring the awful spin of the white tiles as the agent called out to one of the guards: “Is interrogation room A-44 open?”

“Yeah. Need a coordinator?” the guard called back.

“No, I know where it is,” Marcy spoke, looking to Killian. Her thoughts fluttered to the pair of cuffs in her back pocket, though ultimately decided against it - when met with eyes more hollow than she’s ever seen. Her voice carried to the guards outside: “Just follow us. Not sure how long it’ll take but you’re on duty anyway. Make sure he doesn’t try anything. ”

Killian could almost laugh;  _ try anything? _ No - if he was going to kill Sterling; he sure as hell wouldn’t just  _ try. _

* * *

The walk to the interrogation room was just long enough for Walter to pull out his cell and dial Lance. He didn’t miss Killian glaring down at the caller ID ( _ Best Spy in the World)  _ as Walter walked beside him. Lance picked up on the second ring. 

_ “Hey man - what’s up?” _ His voice rang through the connection - though a little muffled. Walter recognized the hum of the agent’s Audi in the background. Lance was on the road. 

“Hi! Okay so… Killian? He wants to talk to you...,” Walter’s voice buzzed with adrenaline as they rounded a corner. 

When a brief moment of silence was received - Walter took it as his cue to continue, albeit in a whisper. It was pointless though, Killian thought. The kid was walking with his shoulder practically glued to his arm - he wouldn’t be exaggerating if he said that he could hear him  _ breathe _ .

“I don’t know why… But I think this could be good! You know, the first step to dealing with any problem is talking about it--”

_ “Alright! Fine, okay!” _ Lance groaned through the phone:  _ “Just please don’t start quoting whatever feel-good slogan you’ve been browsing on Pinterest, Walter. I’m about five minutes away...And don’t approach him, alright?! Be careful.”  _

Walter sighed in relief, then looked up Killian, perhaps a little nervously. He didn’t bother holding back a sneer at Lance’s remark, head held high as they strode towards a larger hallway. The door to A-44 was only a few steps ahead. Walter blinked at Killian for a moment before calling back into the receiver of his phone:

“Sure, Lance - wait; could you pick up some food for him?” 

Killian’s head whirled to Walter, eyes that glared daggers jumped from the brown-haired boy to the phone in his hand. 

A moment of silence. Then:  _ “Hell... I mean, sure? I guess. I’m pretty close to 14th and MacArthur.” _

“Great! One second…” Walter looked up at Killian with a smile that could melt glaciers. They were being led into A-44: “What do you like, Killian? Pizza? Stir fry? Maybe tacos...? They’ve got a mall of everything you could imagine-”

Killian was conflicted between staring at Walter in disbelief and observing the new surroundings. They had stopped and made their way into the room - a steely confine barely larger than his cell. A two-way mirror dominated the wall opposite to the entrance situated at the corner of the room; reflecting the stainless-steel table that stood at its center - bolted down to the floor. Apart from the two equally uncomfortable-looking stainless steel seats stuck on opposite sides of the table’s length, there was no other furniture in the room. 

He was met with a sharp wail of metal on concrete as Marcy drew out the chair on the side of the table, back to the two-way, and felt one of the guards push him roughly down into the seat. The kid was still babbling on about fast food.

“...I haven’t tried the hot dogs yet but I’ve heard good things! Lance said they’ve also got a nice sushi place.” Walter stopped though, as he saw Killian darken at the mention of his friend’s name.

“If you think I’m putting anything Sterling has so much as  _ looked _ at in my mouth, you are delusional.” 

Walter’s brows furrowed slightly, before shrugging it off with a good-natured smile. Walter placed the phone back to his ear, voice a little lower than usual in exiting the room:

“He’ll have the stir fry.”

* * *

Lance wasn’t sure why he agreed to the meeting - nor when he decided that it wasn’t at all strange Uber-eating food to his archnemesis. 

Apart from the stir fry, Lance had also picked up a bottle of water and a fortune cookie as a peace offering. He didn’t know why he bothered. Sitting across from the half-cold, unfeeling man/half-cold, unfeeling machine, Lance wanted to slap himself at thinking a box of take-out could change any of that. Nevertheless, he pushed the bag over to him lightly and tried not to focus on the mechanical arm tapping out sharp, staccato notes on the table. 

“I brought you something,” Lance stated and internally winced at how lame his voice sounded even to himself. When Killian made no move to take it, Lance sighed and lowered the bag to the floor beside his chair carefully. 

From what look on Killian’s face he’s been getting in this wordless interaction, Lance is beginning to think that sending Marcy and the guards off outside on a do-not-engage conduct is proving to be a very bad idea indeed. Lance would try again, it couldn’t hurt in any case…

“Look, man… I’m not-”

“I have only one use left for you, alive -  _ Sterling, _ ” Killian interrupted. Lance felt his fight-or-flight response shooting up his spine at the ferocity in the voice. Killian’s left hand hand froze on the table, his index punctuating the air with a final  _ crack _ of metal on metal: “Not to bring me food or placating words. I want to hear you  _ apologize _ . For Kyrgyzstan.”

Lance expected this. A small burst of shame tore through him - but it was so many years ago - and was a little shocked at the burst of irritation that followed his words. 

_ Apologize _ ? Of course he was sorry! Except... The logic in him did not agree fully. It was not  _ all _ his fault nor only one amend to make. The agency’s loss had been heavy as well - perhaps not as much as the hostile power’s in that event...Yes. But even so, Lance had lost good people -  _ friends, partners _ ,  _ mentors -  _ in… In Task Force Psi that night. 

_ Apologize?  _ The words caught in his throat like a dry pill. 

“I-” Lance started, looking back and forth between the two sides of his face. Killian was staring at him like he’s trying to decide where to mount his head. Lance braced himself: “I’ve thought about it. You weren’t-you  _ butchered _ our people too! But nevermind that,  _ right? _ It was our duty, we signed up for this. Except the hostages you had that night didn’t. They didn’t have a choice! They were innocent people, with families to look after. And you would have orphaned children, destroyed lives if we hadn’t-”

“Hadn’t _what..._?” Killian broke him off, snarling, the mechanical eye blazing a molten red. Lance shook his head. He dipped his chin, unable to continue; to look up and see the _how-dare-you_ in his eyes. Lance only heard the fire in Killian’s voice: “Hadn’t burned through my people? I offered you and your precious agency the option of peace, and you _massacred my men_. Do you know how many you maimed and murdered that day, Sterling? Do you _care_?”

“Of course! But you were going to hurt a lot of people-” 

“And you DID!” Killian snapped, lifting himself from his seat in fury. 

Lance jumped up as well on instinct and watched as the man before him braced both arms on the metal surface - his left hand digging into the table mercilessly: 

“If you’re going to talk about orphaned children and lives destroyed, then you should know that I had a protegé. His name was David. Younger than Walter. Barely 17. David.” Killian’s voice began to break. Lance watched him take a deep breath as he summoned his strength to his words. His left hand moved to clutch the edge of the table:

“Have you seen a flamethrower melt flesh from bone? Do you know what his last words to me were?”

Lance could barely register the scrape of robotic digits against solid steel: “Killian, please-”

“Yes, that was it.” His voice dropped a pitch too low, too thick with pain - quiet; as if he himself did not want to hear what he was about to say: “ _ Set me free, Killian. Please _ \- he had begged me, then pressed his gun to my h-hand and m-made me...”

Killian stopped - throat working to choke back the memories. Lance didn’t know what to say, so he stood, pulse slowly falling; that is until Killian glanced up at him after a sharp, ragged breath. Fixing him with one eye rolling with magma and the other burning with ice. The metal of his left hand had started to elicit a dire howl of the bending steel.

“You took everything from me, Sterling. Did ya have fun? No need to lie, now. I know that you don’t care...It’s the same with everyone in your _agency_ \- all knights in shining armor; heroes for everyone except those that disagree with your heroics. Those, you burn, _crush,_ then lock away so you don’t have to hear their pain or see their suffering. Well, _Agent Sterling_ , I’ll show you suffering-”

A yelp and a crack of a metallic elbow folding under his weight, and suddenly Killian was kneeling on the floor with a moan. All Lance saw was his left arm leaving warped dents on the steel table one moment, then buckling beneath it the next; his right arm propped against the table as his left slid limply down the edge. 

“Woah - Kills!”

Before Lance could gauge the situation, he had already rounded the table in haste. Forget waiting for his thoughts to catch up with him, Lance had already placed a hand on Killian’s shoulder and was only mildly aware that the door to the interrogation room had been cracked open, Marcy now standing at the threshold, backed by four or five guards - no doubt staring in alarm as Lance approached Killian.

“Hey, you alrig-”

No warning was given when Killian whirled around with his right arm - slamming a fist to his face. A sharp pain caught Lance on the base of the cheekbone - spinning his head to the right; the pain of knuckles cutting into him - backed by a snarl of hate. 

_ He just punched me in the face,  _ Lance thought numbly and stepped back, recovering just in time to grab Killian's right arm on the redraw. Lance clasped the other man’s left arm in an iron grip next; though he realized too late that Killian hadn’t tried to swing that arm for a reason - being that he couldn’t. Growling in an animalistic rage, Killian had slammed his knee into Lance’s diaphragm - knocking the air from him. He didn’t let go though - even when the kick knocked him backwards; resulting in Lance stumbling and pulling Killian up with him.

It didn’t take long for Lance to catch his breath - and then his footing. Using the momentum of the kick, he swung Killian around by the wrist and shoulder, pinning his struggling form to the wall. Lance danced away when Killian tried to stomp down on his foot and braced a forearm against his chest when Killian attempted to rise away from the concrete with one arm working. Although he kicked at him from against the wall - Lance was able to dodge him rather easily while maintaining his hold. 

“Are you done?” Lance barked, feeling the skin rising on his left cheek - no doubt going to swell and bruise. Killian writhed one last time with a snarl - attempting to raise his back from the wall again with one arm - but to no avail. Lance’s grip was immovable on his wrist; his forearm dug into Killian's pectorals roughly. 

When Lance felt Killian stop struggling, he was reluctant to let him go if only for a moment - until it proved too awkward to hold him there like that. Letting lose his wrist and shoulder, Lance stepped back. Killian’s glaring eyes never left him even as he heaved to catch his breaths, right arm clutched on his left. 

“You-You had no right...No right to take them from me,” Killian panted with a shoulder propped against the wall: “David, Callahan, Rodriguez…. I can’t remember their faces. Their names are fading too. You-Your agency burned their bodies…”

Lance froze and watched, his stomach pitching at the break in Killian’s voice. A painful draw of the breath here and a crack of the throat there kept him from saying anything himself. But the eyes directed at him - they were nothing short of pure loathing.

“...So why don’t you finish the job, Sterling? Go ahead. Make me a memory like you did the rest of my men.” Killian gritted out, jaws clenched.

Lance had unconsciously held up his hands in surrender. There was no reasoning with homicidal rage as Killian was in now if past experiences in the field had taught him anything. But Lance had to try. He owed him that much.

“Kills - we’re not going to do that. For what it’s worth - I’m sorry. Truly. If I could go back and stop myself from doing any of that, I would.” he stated, watching as Killian straightened: “And I’m doing the best I can to make changes to the system - the agency - as a whole now; so nothing like Kyrgyzstan could ever happen again. What else do you want me to do?”

“ _ To suffer _ ,” he spat without hesitation: “As I’ve suffered - as the families you destroyed suffered.  _ My  _ family.  _ My  _ men _. _ ”

“I understand but…” Lance drew in a breath: “But how would that make anything better? I know how you feel, Kills. But please listen to me - violence for the sake of vengeance... it’s not going to work. You’ve got to let it go - because it...it’s just not worth it!”

Killian’s shoulders drop, and Lance almost let out a sigh of relief; a relief that lasted approximately three seconds. Lance felt his blood freeze in his veins when he saw the metallic fingers of Killian’s left hand roll to life - and the fading blue of his eye replaced by red again.

“ _ What  _ did you say-?!” A roar was rising within him: “That my men aren’t  _ WORTH IT _ ?!”

“No-! Wait, I-” 

Before Lance could utter another word, Killian pounced forwards and caught him by the waist - sending Lance and himself flying backward, sliding across the length of the metallic table and onto the other side of the room’s floor - right in front of Marcy and her team.

Lance landed on his back, his shoulder blades connecting painfully with the floor. It didn’t help that Killian had remained on top of him during the tackle and on impact. Before he could get up, Lance felt a metallic hand closing around his throat - cutting off his airway in pressing his neck into the tiles. On top of that, Killian’s knee was rammed against his chest like a vice, while his right arm pinning down his left. Clawing at the steely grasp on his throat, Lance could faintly hear Marcy, still at the door, yelling at the man on top of him. 

“Killian-! Stop - look at me!” She was shouting. Lance could see him turn his head to her slowly, the red glow above him eerily similar to an M9 assassin. “What Lance meant is that above all - he’s sorry. But what you’re doing now isn’t going to help! Killing him won’t bring your men back-”

_ Seriously, Marcy?  _ Lance wanted to scream; but could only manage a weak sputter at the hold around his neck -  _ Is it really the time to bring that up?! Seriously?! _

“-nor would it take away your hurt!”

Lance could practically feel the growl resonating through Killian when he spoke.

“But it’ll be what he deserves.”

“No! It’ll be what you  _ think _ he deserves! You want to kill him because you  _ think _ it’ll make you feel better. Look at me! I’m telling you it won’t! What did you think Walter saved you for? To murder his best friend? Trust me - you don’t want to do this!”

Lance felt his vision invaded by stars at the end there and thought that this was how he’ll die. The most skilled tactician the agency would ever see - choked to death by a man who wanted him dead the most while surrounded by those he had threatened to fire if they so much as stepped in the room without clearance. What a way to go…

...Except, he wasn’t dead. A weight had been lifted off him and - was he gasping? He was! Lance had drawn in a breath of his own - hands clasping and rubbing at his throat, the weight on top of him newly gone. 

He coughed, hacked, and breathed in sighs of relief as the stars faded from his vision and his eyes began to focus on the Killian, sitting on the floor beside him, legs sprawled between his own. 

Lance looked up at Marcy and nodded his thanks - which was met by a small smile. Lance cleared his throat, and coughed once more before glancing at Killian - his eye now a pale red, drifting slowly to sky-blue.

Afraid to say anything that might break the odd tranquility of a near-death experience (and also placing him back there - this time for good), Lance said nothing for a time, awkwardly rubbing his throat as he propped his back against the wall. 

“Why didn’t you fight back?” It was eventually Killian who cut through the quiet, voice softer than Lance had ever heard him speak - more annoyed than angry, his breathing also uneven. 

“I was making an apology,” Lance shrugged, shifting a little: “You don’t punch the person you’re apologizing to.”

Killian hummed, drawing his legs beneath him: “Would’ve made a terrible apology if you did, I suppose.”

“Sure - and have you ever seen me doing anything terribly?” Lance teased as he stood, rubbing the back of his knee from where it had hit the table. 

“Don’t push it, Sterling,” Killian huffed out; a fangless comment - as he propped his left arm against said table. He stood shakily, his head suddenly spinning as it had in the cell. Blinking, Killian forced his focus on the chair before him and pushed off from the table. He made it two steps before nearly collapsing - if not for Lance wrapping an arm under his shoulders at the last second.

“Woah, there! Okay! Hey- Kills? You good?” Lance tossed a look over his shoulder at the agent in the doorway, gesturing with his free hand to the chair: “Marcy-! A little help would be great...” 

Killian shifted on his arm, twisting his head to Lance, who was suddenly aware of how close his face was to his lips. His voice came forth - dazed, barely louder than a whisper: “I almost...Strangled you to death seconds ago… And now you’re asking if I’m-”

“Yeah, yeah. Happens more often than you’d think nowadays,” Lance tossed back - blaming the sudden warmth in his cheeks on the adrenaline rush as he set Killian down gently in the chair Marcy pushed to the table. He watched as Killian settled down, shoulders curved over the tabletop, forearms propped to hold his head, the left side of his face buried in the crook of his elbow. Nothing saved for the movements of his back, rising and falling with his breaths, was apparent in his stature. 

A wave of Marcy’s hand caught Lance’s attention from behind Killian. She had pulled out a pair of cuffs from behind her and was tilting her head towards the seated figure. One of her brows was raised in suggestion. Lance glanced to Killian, then back up at her - head shaking and mouth forming a silent but fierce  _ NO.  _ Marcy sighed and rolled her eyes - then gave him a look as if  _ it’s your funeral _ \- and left without another word. 

Silence. Then - a heavy exhale of breath was heard followed by a scowl as Killian unburied himself from his arms. Without looking at Lance, he proceeded to tap a spot on the left side of his neck. Lance watched, ever-amazed, as the hologram flickered across his face. Geometric purple sparks flew over scarred flesh and silicon plates - knitting together ivory skin and dark hair; until Killian’s face appeared unmarred. 

He looked up at him passively after that and Lance understood. It was as far as he would get in terms of an olive branch. It was a deletion of his accusation, a brief sheathing of his weaponry. Killian meant it as a small grace - a toss of sand to the crater that was their history; but a toss nonetheless. It was his turn now, and Lance will do his damndest to try.

Lance sighed and strode to perch on the edge of the table - as close as he dared to Killian. He cleared his throat to indicate that he was about to speak. When no signs of interruption presented itself, Lance muttered out:

“Uh...So. Walter told me you haven’t eaten for a while now,” he tried, rubbing the back of his neck: “I got you stir fry and a bottle of water. There’s a fortune cookie in there too if you want it.”

A scowl: “Oh, is three days  _ ‘a while’  _ now? Pardon me but it gets difficult to tell in  _ solitary confinement.  _ No clocks - or sunlight. Hardly enough air.”

Lance gulped, though a small amount of frustration had begun to rise in him, unbidden. Here Lance was - attempting to make amends… Who made this man so petty? He crossed his arms and hopped off the table - making his way back to the other side and sliding in the seat.

“So... Is that a no to the stir fry?” Lance asked with a little more bite than he intended. 

Killian turned his face to the side, clearly miffed - and...embarrassed? Lance stared at him - noticing a growing redness coloring the tip of his ears.

“I didn’t say that.”

Taking pity on the guy, Lance retrieved the box of takeout from the bag sitting on the floor; mildly delighting in that it was still warm to the touch. 

Sliding the container, utensils, and bottled water over to him, he leaned back to watch in repressed amusement as owlish eyes shot up at him. Opening the box and sniffing around at the aroma of sautéd beef and chicken on a bed of rice and veggies - seasoned most deliciously - Killian all but tore open the plastic around the takeout spoon and dug in.

Killian maintained small but deliberate bites; stopping every few minutes to wash down the food with some water; but overall, it was ridiculous how hard he was trying to appear unaffected by the meal - Lance thought. Even a blind man could tell that he was famished. In the midst of this charade, Lance had leaned back and adjusted the right side of his bow-tie; activating a hidden camera that began to take a brief video of Killian - honest-to-god feasting on stir fry.

The next step had been whipping out his phone and sending the video to Walter - along with the message:  _ Got him to bite into something other than my head.  _ A few minutes later and his device was buzzing with a returned message; a gif of a standing ovation among a crowd of people in a theatre. Lance smiled to himself before putting his phone back in his breast pocket. There was little else to do after that except content himself with watching Killian stifle a salivating moan or flavor-filled whine here and there at the cuisine that was P.F. Chang’s. 

When he cleaned the takeout box of its contents, Lance had almost let out a laugh at the way he looked forlornly at the emptied styrofoam. Killian sighed contentedly though and dabbed a napkin over his lips. That reminds him - Lance reached into the bottom of the bag - pulling out a fortune cookie and setting it in front of him. 

“For you,” he said simply, paired with a small smile as he watched Killian cock his head at his gesture. A twist in his gut made Lance realize how adorable that movement was. He watched as Killian examined it… Before handing it back.

“It’s okay,” He muttered: “You could have this.”

Lance blinked at him, before breaking into a wide grin. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Whatever,” Killian waved at him, suddenly annoyed at how happy the guy managed to look.  _ It was just a damn cookie. _

Lance picked up the fortune cookie, and after taking off the packaging expertly, cracked the cookie open to dump the slip of paper out. Unrolling it, he read out loud:

“ _All things are difficult before they are easy,”_ Lance scoffed, thumbing at the paper - then flipping to see if there was more. Unimpressively, the back was blank.

“Well someone just got fired at the cookie factory-”

“The most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard-”

Lance looked up in alarm at their unison. Killian’s mouth had fallen open in horror at having agreed on something. They stared at each other as if waiting for a cue to speak - Lance unsure whether to laugh or remain still. Luckily, he didn’t have to wait for long - when the door burst open and a flurry of brown hair and yellow sweater burst in. Lance didn’t miss Killian jumping a little at the sudden intrusion.

“Hey, guys!” Walter bounced forwards, resting his hands on the table - looking from Lance to Killian, then back to Lance: “So! I had a chat with Joyless… On OTIUM. Then CROP - and she said she’ll be holding a meeting with all of us and some executive agency dudes from around the world!”

Lance raised an eyebrow, though he remained silent. Walter, realizing the odd lack of excitement in the air decided to make up for theirs with his own - his voice rising as if he’d inhaled helium:

“Look - they wanna talk about placing the program into effect as soon as possible,” Walter’s eyes swiveled to Killian. If the kid had a tail, Killian could almost imagine it whipping so fast, he’ll be helicoptered to the ceiling: “It’s for a good cause - for people like you - Killian! To come work with us!”

“ _ What?” _ Killian snarled and delighted in wiping the kid’s smile from his face; if only for a very brief second.

“Just think about it okay? The meeting’s tomorrow,” Walter looked at his watch and frowned, glancing back up at Killian and Lance, already shuffling back to the door: “Oh shoot - it’s getting late. I gotta get home and feed Lovey. Listen - Joy also wanted me to tell you not to bother with calling the Alaska chopper for transport. That plan’s canceled. They’re transferring Killian to holding cells on level 2. Something about cells having to be at least agency-approved? OS security code above 12?”

Lance’s brows furrowed in confusion: “Wait- what? She told me those cells are all full!”

“Cool, cool - Lance, I gotta go! You’re his handler now - you’ll figure it out!” Walter called, already slipping out the door. Then he was gone, leaving Lance in the cold, steely room - just as confused at the company that matched it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Marcy didn't bother stepping in during the fight and I think that's great. She's probably thinking these two needed to get it all out their system. But also? She's mildly annoyed at the kerfuffle and was definitely 2 seconds away from shooting one of them to End It.
> 
> -GASUN pipeline - also a real thing. Also to be featured in later chapters. Give me some time to recover though. This one was brutal.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love is in the air. And that up-and-coming Dread.  
> (In which Lance and Killian share some homie-eroticism.)

Sterling’s car was just as over-the-top as he was, Killian thought. Though why should he be surprised? The car was the seat of Lance Sterling. Still, Killian found it similar to the Batmobile; if Batman worked for Audi and had a pompous obsession with race cars and a whale-ish blue. But as he was pushed inside it by the agent himself, Killian was disgusted to find that he actually liked the interior. 

The seats were comfortable, ergonomic even; despite their gamer-esque appearance. So as Sterling worked the gas; powering the sleek vehicle through the city, Killian sank his back into the suede and leather stretched over memory foam. Bidding a silent goodbye to the metal chairs and plastic mattresses of solitary, he watched the night lights of Washington dance across the glass as the car sped through the metropolitan. Warm orange glows from hotels beckoned tourists while the occasional fluorescent neon blues of shops and plaza signs caught his eye. Three weeks ago, Killian would have watched it all burn to the ground. Well - after hearing Walter’s outburst, he might still be able to… If he played his cards right.

“Never seen Washington at night, have you?” Sterling smirked suddenly, guiding the wheel into a smooth right turn. 

Killian’s gaze snapped to the agent and realized - too late - that he had been leaning slightly against the window. In truth, it was more of an unconscious move on his part to distance himself from Sterling than it was an act of interest at the city lights. Not that Sterling knew, of course. 

Killian let out an ambiguous puff of air in response. Very well. If they’re going to talk, it might as well be something worth talking about.

“I don’t know why you’re doing this,” Killian grumbled with a wave at the road. He fell silent for a moment as Lance slowed to let a Jeep merge in front of them from the leftmost lane: “Any of this.” 

“Agency cells are full, it’s late and I’ve got an approved level 2 back at my place. It’s the first time I’m using it as well. Order of Joy.” Sterling gritted out, as they came to a red light. The car lurched to a stop, a little too sharp for Killian’s liking. He heard Sterling say: “Or would you rather I toss you back in solitary? Just say the word. I’ll turn around right now.”

Killian recognized the futility at arguing with Sterling - not to mention the thinly veiled exhaustion in his voice and how his hold seemed to tighten on the wheel. Neither did Killian miss the white concrete that solitary brought to mind, to be honest. So, he held his tongue and contented himself with glaring out the window for the rest of the trip, seething in silence. 

Cracked asphalt, bricked offices bathing in beige, and the interlocking webs of traffic lights that surrounded them faded away in the distance as Sterling cut into the gated complexes of Washington. Killian noticed the smoothening of bumps in the road once they began to weave through the maze-like side streets of a certain, rich man’s neighborhood. They swerved through a roundabout before arriving at a darkened dead-end - barricaded by a heavy two-slabbed wrought-iron gate set between opposing walls of… Granite? Marble? Killian couldn’t tell in the dark. 

Not that it mattered. His focus was more on Sterling easing the car to a stop and rolling down the driver’s window to register a fingerprint and alpha-numeric passcode. The gate lifted and closed behind them without a sound. _Hydraulic hinges_ , Killian noted - installed to prevent nosy civilians from finding whatever stood behind these walls. 

The path began to wind up a hill past the gates; guarded on either side of its slopes by sentries of dense vegetation. Lush bushes that would have proven an emerald green now waved at the car eerily as they zoomed by. More brambles and thickets extended their skeletal branches in pitch-black welcome, moving to the rush of the vehicle’s passing in a dance composed by the wind. Sharp turns pressed Killian against the back of his seat as Lance expertly maneuvered his way across the slopes, throwing the light of the headlamps into the darkness. It didn’t take long for the top of the hill to rise into view; with a most modern house sitting at its crown.

Killian wanted to hate it as they pulled into the driveway. He really tried, except… It was brilliant. Sterling had style - to his grand irritation. Sleek, grey-white walls, sharp edges reinforced by panels of metal and stylized by doors and frames of walnut and spruce accentuated the architecture. At seeing the giant glass balcony hooking the east wing to the west, Killian could only think of _the view_ that must provide at dawn and dusk. 

On top of all that, a beautifully kept yard and sleek hedges added to the decor. Illuminated by a selection of patio lights situated below a thin strip of water surrounding the house (not unlike a moat to a contemporary castle), it was clear that Sterling must be pretty well off. So this was what H.T.U.V offered their trained killers, he thought bitterly. Good to know.

“Not bad, huh?” Sterling was smirking at him as the car swerved into a driveway wide as a helipad. Parking the car and pulling out the ignition, he faced Killian with a small smile: “Wait ‘til you see the inside.”

But before Killian had a chance to respond, Sterling had unlocked the door and stepped out. He followed suit - trailing after him in disbelief. Ascending the steps, he watched as Sterling held his hand to the doorknob and his eye to the peephole of the door. A brief flash of a gridlike pattern across the metal handle and a burst of light - like that from a camera - indicated the reading of print and pupil. He swung the door open after hearing a _click_ of the lock release itself, holding it ajar and waving Killian inside.

The inside of Sterling’s home was as futuristically minimal as one gets. Killian had expected it to be rash, explosive, even; perhaps overflowing with tacky decor and pretentious furniture. So needless to say, he was surprised at the varying shades of navy blues and greys that made up the foyer and living room. A staircase lined with LED steps shot its way up to the left; encompassing a few planters. Indentations in the ground along the wall made up a length of aloe vera and Chinese evergreens. Lights activated upon entry revealed two white couches sitting on a brown, bear-skin rug. The living room opened into a marble kitchen on the right. 

All of this was situated beneath an overhang that was if Killian had to guess, the master bedroom. Two other doors ran atop the overhang while a glass roof curving upwards - eventually closed it all off. 

“Spacious, isn’t it?” Sterling drew out - pulling the door close behind him. His footsteps echoed a little on the ceramic flooring as he spun around - arms out for emphasis. 

“It’s not under a bridge,” Killian admitted. He watched as Sterling shrugged off his coat - depositing it on a metal hanger stand by the door. He then turned to Killian, reaching out a hand for his jacket expectantly. 

Killian only stared at him, incredulous. Sterling sighed, a slight frown of exhaustion etched in his brows.

“C’mon, man. It’s been a long day. Do I have to wrestle you into bed too?”

Killian felt his ears redden immediately. 

"You-I...No." He choked out, shrugging off his jacket. Killian seriously hoped Sterling missed the tremble in his hand as he practically shoved it to him. He stared at the agent patting the jacket down before hooking it beside his own. It provided ample time for Killian to clear his throat: “Am I a prisoner here then?”

Sterling looked up at him as if he had just asked for permission to breathe: 

“Of course. No hard feelings, though. Just some good-natured house arrest. Follow me - I’ll show you to your room.”

With that, Sterling had begun his strides across the living room towards the broad staircase. Killian blinked before setting after him at a cautious distance - taking in his surroundings. 

As he followed Sterling up the stairs, he projected his mechanical eye across the space; checking for security cameras, electromagnetic disruptors, and possible traps activated by breach or speakers expecting voice commands. From the planters to the arabesque cushions sitting innocently on the ivory-colored couches, Killian found nothing of interest. Not that it did anything to ease his nerves as they made it to the landing. 

Coming up empty on a scan could only mean one of two things; that Sterling had his hands on a ton of lead platings covering the transmissions to his internal security system or he didn’t have an internal security system at all. Knowing Sterling and his record with the agency, Killian was not about to bet on the latter.

So it was that Killian let himself be led to the door in the middle of the hall. As they climbed up to the landing with its glass banister giving a show of the house, Killian saw Sterling stop ahead of him, rubbing his chin in thought. He then turned to Killian - looking him up and down in an evaluating manner. 

“What?” he growled. Sterling’s eyes shot up to his.

“You’re gonna need pajamas, I think,” he stated… Before adding with a grin: “Unless you sleep nude?”

If Killian’s face could burst into flames, it would have happened then. He steadied his voice with effort: “I don’t.” 

“Alright,” Sterling shrugged, then gestured to a nearby door - a light cherry wood sitting in a navy blue frame; a few steps to Killian’s left: “Wait here.”

Whirling around, he strode down the hall - footsteps in rapid succession - before disappearing behind a double walnut doorway. 

Killian sighed, then lightly rested a right hand on the metal structuring the glass railing. He registered the cool steel pressing against his palm - a reassurance that this was real. He was really in Sterling’s house; who'd somehow brought him out this far. Conversed with him, even. 

Nevermind that. Why hasn’t he escaped? Or tried to murder Sterling in the past hour? Killian supposed it was because he didn’t find it possible. Well, at least not in his current state. Though his stomach was filled, Killian was exhausted. A feeling he was unfortunately too familiar with. He felt his eyes begging for rest and his legs threatening to give out beneath him just as Sterling emerged - arms full of purple silk on top of a black, plastic container the size of a shoebox. 

“Here.” Sterling huffed, dumping the container and clothes into his arms: “It’s all just an emergency guest pack; should have everything you need. Toothbrush, shampoo, soap… et cetera.,” he explained while unlocking the door to Killian’s left: “Just… ah - Ignore what it says on the side there....”

He frowned at Sterling before looking down at the dark plastic. Killian flipped the box horizontally, adjusting his hold on the night clothes to clasp under his right arm. A small indentation of words set into the front of the box, just below the lid made his breath caught in his throat.

_FOR ONE-NIGHT STANDS_

_Oh hell no-_ this had to be a joke, right? Killian sneered at the words, ready to snap before a soft _click_ of the door and rattling of keys returning to a pocket made him look up. 

“Go on.” Sterling was saying, gesturing to the room beyond the door. Killian stopped, glancing from Sterling to the room. He stepped forwards as Sterling moved aside, allowing Killian to peer into it. 

A warm glow that he had not seen for weeks drowned the room in a domestic light; emitted from a single chandelier. It hung in rings - like peels of an apple - atop a simple, striped carpet, a spruce nightstand, and a dresser set. A table that looked more like a piece of modern art than practical furniture rested dramatically near a duo of floor-to-ceiling windows. Killian noted the lack of curtains on the windows with a drop of discomfort, as well as two other doors on opposite lengths of the room; directly across each other. Both clearly possessed locks that were impossible to pick and the commercial steel panels that surrounded the two door’s opaque glass made Killian feel as trapped as a lab mouse for testing. 

But apart from that, the room was no exception to the luxury that the rest of Sterling’s home exuded. The majority of the space near the door on the left was taken up by a bed. Backed by a buttoned leather headboard, Killian guessed that it was probably king-sized. Nevertheless, the bed looked a smaller, more Olympic-queen-sized, what with the heavy comforters and lengthy pillows suffocating the mattress. But despite the sheer size of the thing, the room still proved much larger than his cell… and he was a little loathe to admit that it all looked quite comfortable. 

Yet despite feeling seconds away from hitting the floor in a sleep that rivaled death, Killian refused to move. His eyes darted in suspicion from Sterling to the room, then back to Sterling - relishing in the impatience on his face. 

“You’re gonna lock me in here?” A scoff. “This… This glorified chicken coop? For how long?”

Sterling sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. 

“At least until the morning. Look, man - I’m gonna go get some rest and at this point, I really don’t care if you do too. Though you probably should. You look like shit.” He groaned, and before Killian could react, Sterling landed a hand between his shoulders - shoving him in the chamber. He whirled around just as Sterling was creaking the door shut:

“Oh - and that’s the bathroom.” He slurred out - pointing to the door on the left: “And knock on _that_ door if you need anything-” he pointed to the door on the right: “-or just scream. I don’t know. Goodnight.” 

“Sterling!” Killian called out. 

The agent froze with an inch of the door left to close. He raised a brow at Killian… 

...Who just now realized that he had nothing to say. In truth, he wanted to throw something back at Sterling - anything; a clever retort, a threat, a promise of a slow death. He had always given the last word but never like this - never standing in the guest-room-turned-prison of his true foe, holding onto an assortment of lent toiletries and clothes borne of generosity. 

It was humiliating; a brazen shattering of his persona, his ego. Killian didn’t know if he’ll ever recover from this, though he should at least try. Straightening the best he could and lifting his chin to match Sterling’s gaze with the ice of his own (noting with increased frustration that the man was just a smidge taller than himself), Killian cleared his throat and-

“If you’re gonna launch threats - best believe you can make your own breakfast tomorrow.”

Killian’s jaw snapped shut, his eyes widening at the agent - who starred back, dead serious. Something of a cold, insane laughter rose softly in his throat. Killian chuckled without humor. The other remained expressionless. 

“The great Lance Sterling can cook, huh?” Killian sneered - hoping for a bashful dip of the head, a sheepish wince - _anything._ Sterling only smirked back, hand on the door. 

“Of course. Couldn’t you?” The door closed after that with a push. Killian heard the lock on the handle turn and snap in place. Footsteps faded down the hall - leaving Killian to glare at the varnished wood for a moment, indignant. 

He undressed and changed into the nightshirt and pants though - even as Sterling’s question bounced around his skull. The answer was _no._ Killian was many things - but a chef he was not. Which meant his meals would rely on Sterling. Though he wouldn’t let him starve, right?

 _Wrong again,_ a part of him retorted: _It’s Walter_ _who wouldn’t let you starve; even if he owes you nothing. Now, Sterling? He’ll like to believe he owes you nothing. You’ll be skin and bone before he so much as hands you a plate._

His thoughts ran wild as Killian dug through the box. True to his word, Sterling had packed some toothbrushes, a razor and aftershave, some shampoo, conditioner, moisturizer, and…

He blinked. A small plastic packaging sat at the bottom. The square of neon yellow glared up at him accusingly, the outline of a circular ring pressing through the barely palm-sized parcel. Killian was staring at a condom. 

A shudder ran up his spine as Killian dropped the stuff back into the box. As he stood and strode into the room on the left, he was only vaguely aware of the giant jacuzzi and shower occupying the area. Mostly, Killian was thinking of Sterling. He shouldn’t have been very surprised at finding the rubber - the purpose of the box had already been established by print and Sterling… 

Well, Killian could just imagine the number of women fighting to flock into his arms. As he brushed his teeth almost solemnly, followed by running cold water on his face, Killian played out the generic scenario of a damsel-in-distress and Lance, the knight in shining armor, barging in to save the day. His stomach rolled with disgust at the imagery. _Heroes_ \- Killian thought as he dried his face with a towel embroidered by _LS_ \- _are only heroes by perspective._ There’s nothing heroic about war. Yet given the right angle, people would call inducing third-degree burns and shrapnel ripping through the eye socket _heroism_ nonetheless. And they would get away with it too; when there was no one alive to correct them. 

Not that Killian cared to _correct_ them. You don’t stop and try to reason with a beast that devoured everyone you knew and loved. A bullet would work just as well. 

Folding the towel back on the rail, Killian turned off the lights to the bath and bedroom while making it a point to avoid his reflection (haggard face, sunken eyes; he’s seen it all) in the mirror. It didn’t take long for him to drop into bed and began to count the ways he hoped to see Sterling die.

* * *

Walter was a little concerned when Lance didn’t show up the next day for the meeting.

It was to begin shortly - something about the first business of CROP and that mission Lance went on a week ago, in Brazil. Yet oddly, the agent was nowhere to be seen. Walter’s fingers tapped on the armrests of his chair gingerly, seated with his legs crossed under the mahogany table.

“Where’s Lance?” Walter wondered out loud after a moment; his voice echoing through the conference room in a way he won’t ever be used to. 

Marcy shrugged without looking up from her laptop. He glanced at Joy; who remained still as a statue. Standing with her arms folded and eyes up at the giant screen - now lit up with a map of the world, cluttered with red and blue dots across the countries - the director sighed before Walter could ask again.

“He’ll be joining us shortly. By video.”

“Oh. Okay....” Walter murmured. The room was once again filled by just the sound of fingers tapping on keys- though not for long. Walter cleared his throat: “But, uh - why? Is he on a mission?”

Something that could be mistaken for a smile briefly pulled at Joy’s expression:

“You could say that,” she spoke. 

“Alright - we’re on!” Marcy declared. With a final _tap_ of a key, a smaller screen emerged in the corner of the world map - giving life to a modern living room.

* * *

Lance didn’t know what he was expecting when he knocked on the door to the guest room at sunrise. 

The CROP meeting or whatever was in an hour. At this point, he’s showered, dressed, exfoliated - gone through much of his morning routine and even made breakfast (eggs benedict with a side of fruit salad). It was a matter of doing everything except acknowledging that he had a murderous cyborg imprisoned in the only other bedroom of his home. 

But Lance knew he couldn’t ignore Killian forever. Tugging away the towel draped on one shoulder to wipe his hands clean, Lance began his ascension upstairs. His knocks on the door to the guest room were a little sharper than necessary. Nerves strung, he waited; though was met by silence. 

“Killian?” He called. No answer. Lance’s heart began to drum. “You up? I made breakfast.”

Nothing. Lance felt his pulse quicken. 

“I’m coming in, alright?” he shouted out - fumbling for the keys and unlocking the door. He pushed it open soundlessly, mind racing with a thousand likelihoods - none of them good.

_Is he dead? How could he be dead? Can’t be dead… Impossible. Or maybe he escaped. Oh god - he escaped. Joy is going to skin me alive-_

Lance practically leaped over the threshold of the door upon thrusting it open - eyes darting over the room. It was undisturbed; quite similar to how he left it except- oh. 

Killian had propped himself up on the bed, yawning at him lazily. He was in the motion of tossing off the covers with his left arm while pushing himself to sit at the edge of the mattress. Hair almost comically disheveled, Lance watched him rub his eyes, before fixing him with a gaze that could curdle blood. 

“ _What?”_

Between the tone that implied decapitation and the fact that Killian was actually wearing the silk pajamas he provided (of which proved a little too large for him - swimming at the ankles and draping an inch longer than normal at the sleeves), Lance couldn’t hold back a snort of laughter. 

“I made breakfast - eggs benedict - if you’ll like some?” Lance chuckled, watching Killian’s ears and cheeks flush as he slowly registered the hilarity of the situation. Nevertheless, he rubbed his eyes and sat up straighter.

“You made breakfast?” Killian repeated, a little of the irritation draining out of his voice. _Not a morning person - but definitely got a soft spot for food_ , Lance noted. 

“Yeah, sure.” Lance shrugged, nodding his chin at the door: “Just come downstairs when you’re good.”

“Good?” Killian parroted; looking at him oddly - like a Tasmanian devil desperately trying to mimic a puppy - but without realizing it. Lance had to hold back a sigh; suddenly feeling more like a babysitter than a warden. 

“Yes, ‘ _good’_ ,” he stated before whirling on his heels and striding out the door. He left it open though - as an incentive for Killian to actually get up. 

Not that it took long. Killian joined him at the kitchen island a few minutes after Lance plated the food from the pan - along with forks and napkins. He washed his hands - looking up just as he heard the familiar footfalls landing at the base of the stairs.

Though he had achieved his usual hairstyle and pieced together his wardrobe of navy blue shirt and dress pants - polished oxfords clicking down the steps - it was clear to Lance that Killian still wasn’t totally awake. Swaying slightly over to the plates, Killian dropped himself onto a nearby stool. 

Lance watched him sit, leaning with his elbows on the quartz countertop, eyes trained on the plate of food he had set down. But just as Killian picked up the fork atop the napkin next to the plate, Lance remembered something. Bracing himself, he reached over and pulled the plate from him. 

“Hold on - do you have any allergies?” 

Looking like a hawk caught in a snare, Killian growled - his eyes jumping from the plate to Lance. It was almost petulant: “No. Of course not.”

“Alright,” Lance slid the plate of food back to him before leaning on his end of the island. 

He dug into the poached eggs and hollandaise sauce with a fork and knife and sighed a little. The warm sensation of protein, paired with a creamy lemon tang was something he picked up from his trips from Melbourne to New York. Unsurprising. Most of his founded knowledge of food was, in fact, a result of his travels. No point saving the world if you couldn’t fill your stomach - is what Lance thought. So he turned to cooking and cooking turned to a hobby, then a specialty, of his - one that he excelled at. Knowing this, he periodically looked up at Killian to see if he thought the same.

And it seems that he did. Lance noticed the tension in his shoulders fading with every bite. Killian was a relatively quick eater - huffing down the seasoned yolks before moving onto the toasted muffin beneath. Lance’s pace of eating slowed as he watched, entranced, at Killian eventually feasting on the fruits he made. Periodically, he would stop and blink slowly - like a relaxed bird of prey, making a soft exhale of air while bracing his elbows on the table; reveling in the taste. 

When Killian all but licked the plate clean, Lance had barely finished - though that didn’t matter. He looked to Killian - who now had his head cocked at Lance’s plate as if wondering why it wasn’t as barren as his own. It was almost endearing.

“How was it?” Lance smiled, nodding at Killian’s empty dish. Though from his expression - Lance already knew the answer to that question. 

“Adequate,” he offered. Lance didn’t miss the flush on his face though; even as hawk-like eyes bore into his in challenge - as if daring him to press for compliments. Lance got the hint, and nodded, before spearing and biting down on a piece of cantaloupe. 

“Do you have something to drink? A glass of water, maybe?” Killian blurted out. Lance swallowed the fruit with a smirk - _So_ _he’s finally learning to ask_. 

“Sure,” He strode over to the cabinets, retrieving a light blue mug from the shelves he typically reserved for guests: “Tap or filtered?” 

“Tap is fine.”

The trickling of water from the nozzle and the passing of the mug towards Killian ended with him practically guzzling it all down in one go. Lance watched as Killian tilted his head back with the mug to his lips, muscles in his throat pulling and contracting. A slight bob of an Adam's apple and the sharp lines of his jaw left Lance staring, a little heated. He was suddenly overcome with the sensation to curl his fingers along that windpipe...Perhaps scrape his teeth against that collarbone, leave a _mark-_

Lance glanced down just as Killian finished the water, dipping his head and finding use of the napkins. He focused on finishing his plate to avoid conversation, though he could feel Killian’s eyes trained on him - almost curiously. 

When Lance gulped down the last slice of melon, he glanced up at the clock. His heart skipped a beat, eyes widening at seeing the time. Five minutes to eight. Five minutes to get online. 

“Oh, hell-” Lifting his plate and Killian’s off the counter, he set them in the sink. Whirling around, he lifted his laptop from beneath the kitchen island. Starting it up and logging into the agency’s private network, Lance tested the mic and camera before launching the screen. A countdown of the minutes to the meeting began in bright white letters. A navy background emblazoned with the H.T.U.V eagle stood at attention. 

Lance sighed in relief, hand running through his hair as he carried the laptop to the couch. He dropped onto the leather, eyes trained on the screen.

“What are you doing?” Killian called out, still situated at the kitchen island. Lance looked up. His eyes were filled with a most curious sheen that would look diabolical if he wasn’t so sleepy. Nevertheless, Lance preferred it to his usual glare.

“Meeting with the team-” and before he could ask again: “-on what to do with you.”

He regretted his choice of words as soon as they made their way out. Lance watched as Killian bristled. The shadows under his eyes somehow appeared darker. His jaw tensed - even as the corners of his mouth perked up; like a cat readying for a kill.

“Oh? Then how come you’re here and not _there_ ?” He gestured pointedly with his prosthetic at the laptop atop Lance’s thighs: “You’re no Bolshintsov - so it seems to me that your director’s sidelining you. Perhaps she’s decided to finally take you off the force. What was it - a slip-up? Or did she finally hear about your _clandestine_ attempt at a takedown; before being saved by a teenager and his craft supplies-?”

Lance felt a growl rising in his throat - a biting retort; perhaps one that ended in a good ol’ fistfight. His hands curled into fists behind the screen on the laptop; though his face remained impassive.

But before Lance could launch a verbal missile of his own, he noticed the widening smirk on Killian’s face. Lips pulled back to showcase just a dash of teeth, Lance realized that he was taunting him. His posture - which Lance had mistaken for rigidity - was actually one of interest; like someone leaning into an intense action movie. Both irises maintained a blue clear as the sky; allowing Lance to see that, even from five feet away, Killian’s pupils were dilated. 

With that, Lance suddenly understood; thinking back to the weeks in solitary, limited conversations, no stimulants whatsoever. Of course - the guy was _bored._ Add that to a cup of sociopathic tendencies and Lance’s irritation must be the equivalent of a 4K live stream of the MMAs to Kills. The bastard - looking for a kick out of anything. Give him a room? Sure. Food? Done. But make himself an object of entertainment for him? Now that was too much.

So it was that Lance looked down at the laptop, actively attempting to ignore the cyborg in his kitchen. Two minutes. He stared at the screen, even as the sharp clicks of leather and metal ( _Was there a lining of steel on the base of his shoe? So sharp-_ ) sounded towards him. 

The couch suddenly dipped to his right; notifying Lance that Killian had sat down next to him. That and the blob of navy blue, pale cream, and jet-black invading his peripheral vision told him that Killian had draped his left arm on the backing of the couch and situated himself closer than Lance would’ve liked. 

The metal of his left hand was inches to his shoulder. When robotic fingers tapped and rubbed against each other, Lance was reminded of the sharpening of knives. He finally looked up, turning his head to the right deliberately slow.

“You’ve seriously got nothing else to do?” Lance asked. Killian’s eyes narrowed. Lance sighed, looking back down. One minute - one minute to find something for Killian to do before he gets murdered on video. 

Lance looked up, scanning the room. His eyes fell on the sink.

“Look - why don’t you go and… Say… Wash the dishes?” Lance mustered his best smile.

Killian froze, metalwork falling silent: “What?”

“Yeah. The dish soap is beneath the sink; gloves too. I’d show you but…” Lance gestured - thirty-three seconds left. Killian looked both miffed and dazed. Confusion - _of course._

“I’m not your maid, Sterling.”

“It’s just two plates and a mug, man,” Lance sighed - entering in his name and agent serial ID on the pop-up. Fifteen seconds. “Oh - and some pans. A spatula too. I get it if you can’t cook but don’t tell me you can’t clean, either.”

“You… What-? I can c-” Killian managed to sputter out before Lance shushed him. The webcam came on and the conference room dropped into view.

* * *

“Agent Sterling,” Joy greeted as Lance’s face appeared on the giant screen. Walter noticed that he was seated on an alabaster couch - back to a window. Lance nodded at the director, though Walter noticed he seemed a little distracted. His gaze shot from the screen up to something beyond that was likely on the move. From the way his head turned, Walter guessed that his gaze was following something off to the side. 

“We’ve some premises to cover today-,” Joy was saying, looking down on a notebook atop the desk, running a finger down the page before glancing up to the screen: “-And matters to discuss. First item on the list - I think the team ought to be briefed on our investigations with the Brazilian pipeline. Lance - you’ve got the report from the recon team?”

Lance nodded from the laptop: “ _Sure - they sent it to me yesterday. Let me pull up the visuals, one second…”_

A few clicks later and the screen flashed with a couple of images. Most of them were taken from some brambles in the setting sun, thin jagged lines of branches twisted into view. A distance away, Walter recognized the large barrel attached to the GASUN. Except now there was a group of men surrounding it, each of them carrying an assortment of guns. Others were connecting a lengthy, aluminum pipe to the barrel. The pipe; large enough around to be formed by the circumference of two pairs of arms, wound itself through the dirt; plugging itself into the side of a tanker truck. 

As Joy flipped through the photos, different angles were brought into view. Some of them showed a crowd of smaller, black vans surrounding the truck. The plumes of dust encircling them - kicked up by the tires - distorted their outlines to a point that the vans appeared almost beast-like in the setting sun. Their darkened windows brought a chill to Walter’s spine. 

“ _Recon found around eighteen hostiles in total returning to the site after I disabled the defense system,”_ Lance spoke through the mike, voice grave: “ _Pursuit by drone showed footage of a hand-off happening that night - as luck would have it. Unfortunately, we lost signal and didn’t get the footage uploaded in time.”_

Walter watched as Joy pushed her glasses up her nose with a knuckle, arms folded before her seriously: “So what’s the report?” 

Lance sighed: _“I’m getting there. Although we lost the footage, surveillance did pick up on the weapons that the hostiles had - QBZ-95 automatic rifles; bullpups. All of them. And here…”_

The images on the screen shifted to a few prior to the one they were looking at; a photo of the vans. The sound of typing on keys through their connection accompanied the enhancing and zooming of the image onto the side of a van. A small stamp the size of a palm near the driver’s door pixelated into view. 

Walter, at first, saw nothing but a triangular blur of white on black; framed in a circle by flames? No - tails. The center of the stamp beheld a furry triangle - large ears, a sharp nose, beady eyes. Walter blinked at the head of a fox. He counted the tails around it and found nine - fanning outwards like a peacock. Walter heard a sharp intake of breath from Marcy in gazing at her laptop. Joy’s brows rose on what was normally a face of stone. She stepped closer to the photo.

“QBZ-95s, you said?” She asked, mouth curled into a frown.

Walter took in Lance’s nod from the screen.

“...Bullpups are hardly manufactured by any corporation outside the East,” Joy stated: “And that sigil belongs only to the Triad.”

“The what?” Walter blurted out. Joy whirled around in surprise - as if she had forgotten that he was still here.

“The Triad - China’s mafia syndicate. They’re based in Hong Kong. Got ties around the world, though.” Joy looked back to the screen, her frown deepening: “But this stamp here? Now that’s not from any typical gang. The Nine-Tailed Fox hasn’t been on the agency’s radar for years now. They fight for the Triad but have diminished in number after the rise of the yakuza. Looks like they’re back.”

Lance confirmed: “ _Looks like it. We have a lead, though-”_

The screen flickered forward a few images before landing on a close-up of the pipeline and a larger van of the bunch. Walter recognized it as an Alphard van - a luxury security vehicle from a movie he watched a few days ago. In it, the bodyguards of a celebrity had been traveling in the Alphard when the van had been upended via an untimely bomb. But as he stood now, staring at the dark, charcoal mass of steel - equipped with tires that were probably thrice as heavy as he was - Walter could not believe that it would ever flip like he had seen it in the film. He couldn’t even imagine it wobbling. 

The van was parked with its tinted shotgun window open and facing the drone’s camera. In the passenger seat sat a man in a suit. Rich black hair which faded into a faux cut crowned his head. The rest of his face, though, was turned towards a woman in the driver’s seat.

Another click of the keys and the screen jumped to a different photo - taken at a new angle. The drone was now on the driver side of the van; though a quarter of the image was invaded by a rectangle of grey; as if the camera had been partially obscured behind the pipeline. Nevertheless, Walter was able to make out a woman in the driver’s seat of the van. She was calling to a researcher - who happened to be investigating the weaponry atop the pipeline connected from the GASUN to the barrel. 

Now, the woman… There was something off about her, Walter immediately noticed. If he were to have guessed, the woman in the driver’s seat should have been in her mid-thirties; but somehow looked ten years younger than that. Olive skin pulled over high cheekbones, a strong jawline and a nose that stood at attention didn’t give Walter the impression that she was Chinese at first; mixed perhaps… But the closer he stared at her, the more her features began to give in to mandarin heritage; like flakes in a snowglobe slowly settling to showcase the scenery behind the glass.

The woman’s piercing almond eyes - almost fox-like - were overshadowed by a pair of black, haughty brows. Her hair, however - was anything but. Snow white curls bounced effortlessly atop her head in a style reminiscent of Marilyn Monroe, but without the kindness. A mouth that seemed permanently carved into a sneer starred out from the screen. Wine-red lipstick, bedazzled leather dress, and earrings twisted into iron spears glazed her in charm with a hint of danger. Something about the woman both entranced and frightened Walter - like hearing the call of a loon at dusk. 

_“We tried running a facial recognition scan but ID databases came up with nothing. I guess we can contact the Executives and ask for their logs...”_ The uncertainty in Lance’s voice was one Walter found extremely disconcerting. The screen flickered back to his upper body on the couch, shoulders strained and back upright.

“Don’t bother.” Joy breathed. Walter glanced at her. She was gripping onto her arms with white knuckles. The blood had drained from her face. 

“As far as the agency’s papers are concerned, she’s a ghost.” Joy took a deep breath, scanning the room to ensure that everyone was listening. Marcy had stopped typing her notes and Lance’s eyes were wide as satellites. Walter was sure he could’ve heard a pin drop. Joy continued.

“Everything we have on her is by word of mouth - field agent reports; formal and informal. She has a thousand aliases; the Nine-Tailed Fox being her favorite. It is believed that HuMie Liang is her legal name; if anything about her could be legal,” Joy stopped, frowning as if trying to recall anything else: “She goes by Miel. Born to the Hu Family - incredibly wealthy transcontinental suppliers for the Triad’s gambling business...Knows five languages; Mandarin, Arabic, English, French, and Portuguese.”

“Wow.” Walter hissed beneath his breath; which caught in his throat when Joy shot him a look. Her brows furrowed, face blank and eyes wide - as if running a diagnosis on his reaction. 

“Yes. It’s impressive.” She hummed, before looking to Marcy, tapping away at her laptop a few meters away: “Agent Kappel; forward everyone here a copy of all our notes on Miel; interviews, reports - do a keyword search. This might be big.”

“Copy that,” Marcy nodded, green eyes reflecting the white beams of her laptop. Walter watched as Joy looked back to Lance expectantly. He cleared his throat.

 _“Right. Well, Miel apparently barked some orders to the technician of her team in the unrecovered footage. They couldn’t get the weaponry on their pipe back online due to the replacement wiring being unavailable. So she just threw a tantrum, filled up the tank, and left. The tanker and vans were then transported to an abandoned warehouse nearby - presumably stolen as well. And god - there were around three twin turboprops equipped with a military arsenal guarding a heavy business jet. She had the jet refueled with the tanker and they boarded. Drone transmissions were cut short by a local EMT set-up a minute after they took off. But we did catch ‘_ Hong Kong’ _a lot in their conversation. It’s possible she may be on a return trip.”_

Joy was quiet for a time after that, eyes trained on the ground. Walter blinked, looking to Lance then to Joy with a nervous smile:

“Are we going to Hong Kong?” He asked. Joy looked up at him in alarm. Walter fought the urge to shrink into his chair.

“You’re not going anywhere - this is a highly charged mission. If the Triad is back and fronted by the Nine-Tailed Fox, this is a job for Lance.” Joy emphasized with a shuffle of the papers she had picked up from the table.

“ _It is-?”_ Lance called from the screen; then quickly adding at the look on Joy’s face: “ _I mean - of course. I’ll do it. But I don’t get why we gotta-”_

“What’s that sound?” Joy interrupted, wrinkling her nose. 

They all stilled, listening. Walter heard it too. A rush of water and something akin to glass on... Ceramic? Metal? The faint cacophony was like rainfall in the background; not as annoying as it was mildly distracting. It almost sounded like-

 _“Killian’s washing the dishes,”_ Lance breathed. With his head tilted upward and eyes focused on a point beyond the screen, Walter almost laughed at the disbelief on his face if he wasn’t just as shocked himself. Marcy finally looked up from her laptop, head whipping to the overhead and Joy… Well, if Walter had glanced at her, he would have noticed the slightest smile on her face.

The moment passed when Lance shook his head, looking back to the screen with half a chuckle. 

_“Sorry, what were we discussing...Hong Kong? Right, yeah.”_

“This mission is non-negotiable, Lance,” Joy continued without missing a beat. She had begun to gather up her papers: “And if it’s the workload you fear - don’t worry. You won’t be doing it alone.”

“Wait, what?” Lance raised a brow at her; his eyes shifting across the screen. Joy stepped back and gestured to Marcy. 

Walter watched as Marcy got up and rounded the table with a clipboard and pen. She tapped on the board lightly as she walked - in beat with her steps - before cocking her head at Lance. 

“Agent.” she greeted, then glanced back to Joy - who gave her an assured nod. Walter had no idea what’s going on at this point. 

Marcy looked back to Lance. A glimmer of empathy flitted across her face: “Could you get Killian over here please?”

* * *

 _What was the point of a dishwasher if you’re not going to use it?_ \- Killian thought. From the looks of the house, it was pretty clear that Sterling was as much of a solo bird in the field as he was a bachelor at home. Did he wash _all_ of his dishes by hand? 

Killian couldn’t imagine. As he scrubbed the plates with a sponge soaked in dish soap, he hoped that his left hand wouldn’t short-circuit if the metal carved a hole in the glove and met water. Rinsing the plates, Killian wondered if it would be so difficult for Sterling to stack his dishes in the dishwasher and power it on once every other day or something. Or maybe he was one of those old-timers that still think washing dishes by hand is more environmentally friendly than using technology. Yes. That was probably it.

As he dried the dishes and utensils with a nearby towel, Killian smirked at the thought of Lance Sterling planting trees and checking labels for biodegradable materials. Lance Sterling picking up trash on weekends - as if that would make a difference to his conscience in blowing up “ _bad guys”_ on the job. What a joke-

“Kills!” Sterling was calling him from across the room. Killian bristled; wondering why he insisted on that appellation. _Kills._ The whole point of his criminal alias was, well, the _crime_ ; to alienate one life from another, less socially acceptable, one. But of course - like everything Sterling touched when it came to him, he ruins. 

_Kills._ Was adding two more syllables so hard? Shortening it to such made Killian feel like a pet. 

“What?” he shot back. Ignoring him one minute and calling for him the next? Sterling ought to make up his mind before he lops it off.

“Come here for a second.”

Killian took off his gloves and dropped them in the cabinets beneath the sink before striding over to him. He tried to keep his steps light, unassuming, as he slid onto the couch beside him. Though his eyes bored into Sterling’s; as if daring him to speak another word that might be mistaken for condescension. Which - knowing the size of the man’s ego - would be anything at all. 

Lance offered him a smile, though and Killian immediately knew his glare was misinterpreted as a need for approval when Lance scooted over.

“Thanks for...You know. The dishes.” His smile became a little sheepish. 

Killian suddenly wanted to tear this man’s throat out; now more than ever: “Your gratitude means nothing to me, Sterl-” 

_“Killian.”_ A voice interrupted him from the laptop. He looked down at a pair of green eyes, coffee skin, and brown hair through the screen. Kappel. Though she took up most of the screen, he could also see a white-haired woman he did not recognize standing behind Kappel - watching him almost calmly behind rectangular glasses. The Beckett boy stood warily in the background beside the woman. A small smile lit up his face when he saw Killian, jumping up from his seat to stand beside Kappel.

_“Hey, Killian! How're you doing? How’s he doing, Lance?”_

Killian could only freeze in horror as Sterling bumped him with his left elbow; speechless as the agent replied all-too-fondly:

“Not bad, I think. Not a morning person, though.” Sterling whispered at the camera. Walter laughed while Killian sat there, interchanging from glaring at Sterling and sputtering for words. He was almost relieved when Kappel stepped in.

 _“Alright, enough,”_ She hissed at the two of them. Walter fell silent, though the smile never left his face. Killian was sure it had to be glued on the kid. What could there possibly be to keep him so happy for so long?

_“Lance, you should know that we’re asking you to be his handler for the duration of CROP. I’m sure you know that the Criminal Redemption and Overhaul Program has a series of guidelines in terms of missions; and this applies to your next objective in taking down the Fox. Particularly now that we have Killian.”_

Killian felt his haunches rise - _have_ him? They must be joking… Has he really become a _pet_ ? Or maybe not even that - _a tool?_ He didn’t care that his left eye had begun to burn; the silicon plates suddenly stifling under the hologram. Killian’s left arm had dug itself into the couch - threatening to burst the leather.

“Excuse me-?” He snarled, “I’m not...How dare you- You think you could make me an... Another _gadget_ for your agency?! After everything you’ve done and you have the audacity to-”

 _“You’re not a gadget!”_ Walter jumped in, hands waving - as if redirecting the charge of a bull: _“This an opportunity, Killian. We want you to come help us make the agency better. To change the way we do things around here. Who knows -you might even like it!”_

There was something naturally disarming about the way the boy spoke, Killian thought. He hated it. 

“Oh please - save me your benedictions or throw me back in the cells. Just who are you going to have me maim?” Killian snapped. If it was any other time, he would have laughed at the guarded discomfort on Sterling’s face. But it was Kappel who spoke.

 _“Lose the attitude, McFord. We all know you don’t wanna be back there,”_ She stated. Killian stilled, eyes widening just a little. Marcy continued: _“Now listen. We know you’ve worked with HuMie Liang in the past. The agency needs to figure out what she’s planning. Her itinerary, so to say. This is Lance’s mission - but you’re going in as the cavalry due to your ties with the Fox. On the trip to Hong Kong, you’re going to tell him everything you know about this Triad governess. A transport team will be over with a tracker in eight hours to set up surveillance of your audio and location as well as brief Lance on the travel plans. He is your handler, your operator. Your god, as far as the agency’s concerned. And you’re going to do everything he commands, on this mission. You are going to Hong Kong. And you are going to cooperate with us when you do.”_

Killian glared at her, not at all impressed by the speech: “Oh? And what makes you so sure of that?”

 _“Because we installed a kill switch in your arm after that incident in A-44. Let’s just say it packs more than just a disengage code now,”_ Kappel smirked, one hand patting Walter on the shoulder. Walter gulped, eyes avoiding Killian as he scuffed his feet along the floor - face turning an accusing rouge. 

Killian’s throat closed, even as his diaphragm contracted. He wasn’t sure why he suddenly felt… Betrayed. It wasn’t as if Beckett was ever truly on his side in the first place. No - he was just the only person who had shown him unwarranted kindness in years - saving his life in the process. 

Rage filled him to the brim; red-hot - a burning and stabbing that tore at Killian's chest like a branding iron - threatening to melt his circuitry. But it wasn’t anger directed at anyone other than himself. He wouldn’t have felt caught off-guard - misled - if he had just refused the arm. Refused the boy’s _“_ _help_ _”_. It would have been better than wherever he was now...

“What did you _do_ to me?” He heard himself snarl at the screen instead. Walter finally looked up, hands shoved deep in his pockets, a helpless expression on his face.

 _“Nothing! I didn’t want to- It’s not as bad as you think-”_ Walter looked from him to Marcy a little wildly.

She sighed, rolling her eyes at Killian: _“Oh suck it up, princess. It’s just a taser; non-lethal. I’ve had some agents try the programmed voltage out. They all admitted to having bee stings that were worse. You have this one here-”_ Marcy nodded to Walter: _“-to thank for that.”_

Before Killian could formulate a response, Marcy had turned to Lance.

_“Eight hours, alright? Then you’ve got access to the jets. Take off to commence in no less than thirty minutes after the team’s departure. We’ll be in touch.”_

“Alright. See you then” Lance confirmed - giving a slight wave before logging out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter! Woohoo! Notes time:  
> \- HuMie Liang is 狐灭亮; in Chinese and The Triad is Actually a Thing. I will be exploring her backstory and crafting some really intense scenes in the following chapters.... oWo
> 
> \- One day, Lance hopes to win Killian over with his cooking... One day. It's a Process, my dudes.
> 
> \- Joy secretly ships these two idiots I dunno if you can tell-
> 
> \- These chapters just keep. Getting. Longer. Help me.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang heads to Hong Kong to find a badass bitch. Killian tags along unhappily :>(

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh yep - there's some........things. In this one. Just... Don't read while having soup. 
> 
> ...Trust me on this one.
> 
> Put away the soup.

Despite being no thicker than a typical watch, the house arrest bracelet they slapped on his ankle somehow weighed heavier than a cellphone and was twice as uncomfortable. It dug into Killian’s joint with a vengeance if he didn’t keep his foot perfectly straight. So before he had even begun to move, Killian just knew that it would throw off his stride; now having to favour his left leg to accommodate for the weight and odd positioning.

It was a wonder how delinquents do it; wearing the thing for months? A year? And what have they accomplished - other than a few insults to injuries against the white-collared system…? Not to toot his own horn but fraud or embezzlement is hardly as devious as genocide. But now - genocide, fraud _and_ embezzlement (he had so much more to add, of course)? With some luck, Killian hopefully won’t be wearing the damn thing for the rest of his life. 

“If this comes off, we’ll know,” Marcy was growling, crouched beneath him. Her hands deftly fastened the clip of the anklet; locking the mix of plastic and metal in place: “If you jostle it, try to open it up, tamper with it in any way, we’ll know. And if you attempt to hack it or so much as make a scratch on the casing-”

“Let me guess - you’ll know?” Killian sighed, already bored. But not for long - as a sudden, rough tug on the bracelet almost unbalanced him. Kappel brushed herself off and stood. Her shoulders were squared and Killian got a look that he was quite used to in his line of work - the _I-would-murder-you-right-now-if-it-didn’t-require-me-touching-you_ look. 

“We’ll-” She leaned in. Killian raised his chin - refusing to step back. “-know.”

“Alright, okay - let’s just, take it easy now…” Sterling murmured stepping in and placing a hand on Marcy’s shoulder. His other hand made it two-thirds of the way to Killian’s chest before being dropped by a solid glare.

“Jet’s waiting outside.” Marcy huffed to Lance. She turned on her heels and stormed out. If not for the soft hydraulic hinges on Lance’s back doors, Killian was sure he would have heard a bone-rattling bang.

“C’mon,” Lance sighed after a moment. 

Killian followed him across the living room to a door beneath a steel awning protruding from the house. Stepping onto the back porch, he noted how the awning threw a large, rectangular shadow across a hardwood platform. 

Not that they needed it. The sky was a muddy grey - the usual unforgiving heat of Washington’s summer sun taking a merciful rest behind the opaque clouds. A light gust of wind coming from the east almost gave off a chill. Gusts combed through the white oaks that surround the ungated expanse of cropped grass that was Sterling’s backyard. 

It wasn’t all flowers and meadows, however. A large portion of the yard had been cleared about a hundred meters in the distance. A length of runway stretched a little over half the maximum distance that Killian could perceive (which, if counting his cybernetics, was three kilometres). Six thousand feet of asphalt and concrete painted with streaks of neon white and yellow laid ahead. 

But that wasn’t the centrepiece to this little scenery. Killian didn’t miss the enormous private jet fronting the runway. From wheel to vertical stabiliser, it was almost eight meters in height. While three Pratt & Whitney Canada PW307A turbofans adorned its back end, Killian could practically map out the s-duct central engine under the aluminium shell. Even under that _atrocious_ metallic sky-blue (this was the chosen aerial operating machine of the Royal Australian Air Force, for goodness sake - not some party bus), Killian knew they’ll be flying in a Dassault Falcon 7X. Capable of reaching 0.90 Mach at max speed and a range of 11,019 km, he was almost beginning to believe that they’re _actually_ headed to Hong Kong.

The walk to the jet felt brief, almost dreamlike. Though it could just be that Killian was made to wake at the crack of dawn - courtesy of Sterling. Speaking of, the agent had been oddly quiet; even as the side of the plane unlocked to form stairs. He was towing along two suitcases of necessities for himself and… Killian had no idea what the second one was for. In any case, Sterling tossed the two baggages towards the front of the plane and only spoke when they made it into the cabin with Kappel - who had snapped the jet’s door shut behind them. 

“You’re coming with?” Sterling asked her, brows raised. Killian smirked - so this man had thought he could’ve handled him alone? How endearing. 

“Only to get you set up for the first three days. The team and I will be facilitating your schedule, your accommodations and beta-testing the orders of CROP. Not to place any pressure on you - but however this turns out will reflect whatever future changes we make to H.T.U.V in terms of mobilizing detainees,” Marcy assured Sterling with a wave of her hand to the back of the cabin.

Killian’s head followed the trajectory of her gesture. Luxurious, leather recliners that sat up to sixteen or so lined the jet. While the front was mostly outfitted with forward-facing seats that had an unnecessary amount of legroom, the back was comfortably equipped with couches on one side and tables on the other; sandwiched by plush chairs of their own. Curtains obscured the very back of the room along with the front; in which Killian guessed led to the washrooms and control center as well as the cockpit of the pilots, respectively. Small windows shed faint halos of light into the cabin space - and Killian was suddenly aware that two other people had already been situated in the area.

His gaze first landed on the red-headed girl with the glasses - quantum optical thermography of some sort. He doubted that she was actually at a visual disadvantage though, from the way she looked at him. Eyes. Of course. With the crook of her legs resting on the armrests and legs hanging in the aisle, said Eyes were currently invested in a cellphone on her lap.

The other one - Ears, it was - looked just about the same as Killian had last seen him. Except now, he had his back to him in the seat across from Eyes. With his red jacketed shoulders propped against the window, Killian would’ve guessed that Ears was asleep if not for the fact that he could see his hands drumming on his thigh to an invisible beat from the earphones around his head. The hat, though, stayed on.

“The flight will be a little over fifteen hours...” Kappel spoke as she led them to the back of the cabin. The girl scooted over to the window seat as soon as she saw Killian approach. The action distracted him from the Kappel agent who landed a hand on his shoulder, and with surprising strength, dropped him into the seat beside Eyes. Lance took the seat across from him next to Ears almost gingerly.

“...And you. Don’t even think about it.” Kappel hissed at him. Killian blinked at her. She narrowed her eyes: “We’ve got armed aerial drones in pursuit on every corner. The pilots are two of the agency’s most experienced TFT marshals with six military personnel in the rear cabin-” She pointed to the curtains, “-on duty. So you'd better _behave_.”

“Christ, Marcy - Relax. He’s not gonna- I don’t know… Not like he could...uh...” Lance’s voice faded as Marcy fixed him with a rigid glare.

“It’s not your ass on the line if anything goes wrong, Sterling.” She growled, though nevertheless dropped onto the couch parallel to the table. Her eyes swivelled from Lance to Killian: “At least until the third day. Then he’s yours - and all bets are off.”

Killian felt his shoulders tighten under Sterling’s wariness. He opened his mouth to reply when a crack of the overhead burst through the brief silence.

 _“Take off to commence from Washington, D.C to Hong Kong, Guangdong. Estimated flight time would be fifteen hours and forty-eight minutes. Time at the moment is 2:04 PM. Weather currently is_ _93.2°F with a southern Wind at 13 km/h - along with 46% humidity. Advised that seats to be taken. All set, agent Kappel?”_

Killian watched as Kappel reached over to the couch for a communications dispatcher wired to the wall, embraced by a metal stand bolted into the felt. She pressed the button on the side and brought it to her face: “All set.”

The engine roared to life around Killian. He was suddenly filled with the sensation of being entombed in the belly of a great, blue beast. With the tracker’s band fastened around his left ankle like the trace of its teeth pressing into his skin, Killian sighed and tossed his head back - hoping to get some rest for now.

* * *

Hong Kong is a city of great potential. 

It’s a gateway to the Western world; the place where the East met the West. The metropolitan has become a roost for billionaires in recent years, as well as the world’s tenth-largest exporter and ninth-largest importer. It is the throne of financial centres and commercial ports characterised by low taxation and free trade. With one of the highest per capita incomes and longest life expectancy of its residents, Hong Kong is a haven for the poor and the rich; for the saints and the sinners. 

But most notably now, Hong Kong has the largest number of skyscrapers of any city in the world; with more popping up everyday. Some of them are under construction, and in perfect position surrounding an up and coming target. Often patrolled and maintained by workers much too exhausted and underpaid to question a buy-out for the cloaking of security cameras and the excuse of _“site tour”_ for a wealthy buyer, the scaffolds were the perfect place for the job. It was a tact that never got old; and always quite advantageous for her. Not so much for _l’avocat_ at the end of the barrel, though. 

She drew a cigar from her purse with a gloved hand and brought it to her lips. Ducking behind a half-completed wall to light it, a sharp intake of breath was heard by her feet. 

Hanzi was on the dust-ridden floor, his hands and eyes trained upon a suppressed accuracy international L115A3 sniper rifle. It was aimed at a balding lawyer in his late fifties - who had got his short, stubby fingers on the wrong case. 

It was all a simple misunderstanding, of course. She had sympathised with the man and had tried to handle it in a most civilised fashion as befitting her taste (叔叔- 您不懂这事情可带给您多少麻烦; 别追啦). It was not until he had brought up the police (你感觉我怕你? 找警察来, 带着法律来, 我们再谈!) that she had shook her head in a quiet chuckle. For a lawyer, he really was a foolish man. There was little to be gained in voicing threats one cannot carry out, after all (带着法律来? 您还是不懂. 我就是法律. 啊， 真是可惜...). 

When the end of the cigar began to smoulder under the flame of the lighter, Miel drew in its richness. She held it in her mouth, carefully keeping it out of her lungs; giving the aroma time to slide over her tongue. A good cigar always had a certain taste to it - like owning the world… Or at least somewhere between the best coffee money could buy and a perfectly cooked steak. 

She let the flavors waft around the roof of her mouth and tease at the back of her throat before slowly letting it out in a white puff of smoke. Her breath matched that of Hanzi’s exhale. 

_Three…_

_Two…_

_One-_

A muffled blast tore itself from the end of the rifle, echoing its significance across the empty construction floor. A welcomed sound; as satisfying to her as bubble wrap to a child.

“It’s done, Mistress.” 

Hanzi began to pack up his equipment. His hands worked to dismember the weapon with practised ease; sending its parts tucked neatly into a briefcase. Picking it up, the assassin looked to the governess with a respectful dip of the head.

Miel smiled. Somewhere in a drab, little office of tan walls and old bookshelves now laid a man with a bullet through his head; a chicken that had underestimated the Fox. One less enemy to be concerned with and one step closer to where she wanted to go. 

“Lovely,” she murmured, before withdrawing a walkie-talkie clipped to her hip. Seizing it, she cleared her throat: “We’re done here. Send a van now.”

 _“Right away. Any other locations for today?”_ The transmission came back with a rough voice she identified as Taiyin’s. 

Miel took another puff from her cigar.

“No. We’re finished. I think I’ll be returning to Kowloon.”

_“For how long, Miss?”_

A tense silence pervaded the line. Taiyin was still young. She’ll forgive the slip-up. 

“Van. Now.”

They were wise enough not to initiate anymore conversation. Miel clipped the walkie-talkie back to her hip and strode toward the stairs - Hanzi clearing the way ahead. The echo of her heels on the dust-wore cement faded a lot faster than the faint aroma of cigar; which lingered in the corridor a while longer before being swept into the humid, Hong Kong air.

* * *

It was no small feat waking Killian, Lance thought. 

He didn’t dare poke him awake, to be honest - and since Marcy had also passed out around the twelfth hour, Lance had finally cracked open his laptop. He started to research his mission objectives - primary filtering through the information on the email forwarded from Joy indicating a list of aliases, field notes and descriptors for the Nine-Tailed Fox. 

It was the most chaotic report he had seen to date. Opposing information, missing chunks that made no sense, contradicting timelines - the file had it all. Even the few field photos that were taken had been blurred beyond recognition. Staring at the screen, Lance felt like he was trying to decipher the Rosetta Stone.

Two hours with a handful of vague - if not somewhat useless - knowledge on the Fox made him concede defeat. It would have been three in the Washington morning, now. Lance rubbed his eyes blearily. A small dash of light around the edge of the table and above him was little to go by, and his eyes strained from staring at the screen for so long. He glanced away, not for the first time in an hour; gaze landing on Killian across the table. 

Lance has gotta admit - it was substantially entertaining watching Killian’s progression of exhaustion and gradual forfeit of pride. It took an impressive three hours for him to drop his head on the table. When they had their in-flight meal, it took another four hours for Killian to begin sliding back in his chair. He cranked the recliner back for another five hours at a glacial pace; until it now laid flat as a hospital bed, utterly parallel with the jet’s floor. At some point, Killian had even kicked his shoes off with a sleepy curse; rolling around for a few minutes before getting up and shrugging off his coat. Lance only watched in silence as he folded it into a rectangle before climbing back in his seat and plopping the coat down on the end of the chair - along with his head. 

He was just surprised that he didn’t snore, or toss around. In fact, it hardly looked like Killian was breathing. Lance had been worried at first. Between the pallid skin and prone posture seemingly mummified to the leather, the man looked eerily similar to a corpse. Nevertheless, the expression on his face was more alive than he’d ever witnessed - peaceful, almost. Softened by a lack of a glare and hazy with sleep. Lance would hate to interrupt it.

But a look back to the jigsaw mess that were the reports left him with no choice. He glanced around the cabin and noted the slumber of all but Eyes - who had been contentedly staring out the window as if waiting for something - impassive to the sleeping murderer next to her. Lance sighed.

“Hey…!” He whispered at her.

Eyes swivelled her head to him a little too quickly. She blinked rapidly before offering a soft smile: “Yeah - what is it, Lance?”

He pointed to Killian: “Could you tap him awake for me?”

Eyes looked at him as if he’d gone mad.

“ _What?_ Are you kidding-?” She hissed at him. Killian stirred. Eyes and Lance froze - before watching him settle back into a slumber. She turned to him, voice softer: “He’ll _kill_ me!”

“Yeah? And what do you think he’ll do to me?” Lance breathed back. Eyes hesitated, looking from Lance to Killian, then back to Lance. Lance knew he’d won when she bit her lower lip and fixed him with a miserable gaze. Mouthing a _thank you_ to her, he watched as she laid a hand on his shoulder and brought her face an inch closer to the man. 

“Killian? Um… Uh… Could you wake up, please… Sir?” She shuddered - hand giving the gentlest of nudges.

An annoyed moan and shift of cloth against leather brought Killian to prop himself up on a forearm. His hair was mussed and his collar was twisted, but Lance noticed that his complexion looked better than before - the dark circles still present but less accusing. Bleary blue eyes fixed themselves on the redheaded girl.

“What? Are we there already?” Killian groaned and with a shift of muscle, propped himself up. His head was cocked at Eyes - who gulped. 

Lance decided to jump in before the lass’s heart could explode.

“Not exactly,” Killian’s gaze bounced to him. Lance could feel his gravitas wither. “I need to ask you some questions about HuMie Liang. The Nine-Tailed Fox?” 

Killian blinked at him before heaving out a sigh. He leaned forward, propped an elbow on the table and ran a hand down his face. Lance stared at him, waiting for whatever high-tech gears in his head to start turning. 

A brief moment passed before he lifted his hand away - to reveal brows knitted in annoyance.

“What do you want to know?”

* * *

The look on Sterling’s face was nothing short of predatory relief. Killian watched as a small smirk tugged the corner of his mouth up sharply. The brows overshadowing his face darkened, somehow, and a glimmer of hunger graced his eyes; like a starved man seeing a meal brought to his table.

Killian cocked his head at him. Legs crossed, left hand resting between them as an admonition. Not that there were any weapons good enough to stand against curiosity. _Miel._ Unease filled him; knowing he’ll be owing a debt just by uttering the name.

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything.” Sterling huffed in frustration: “Who is this woman? No birth certificates, familial information - _nothing._ It’s as if she never existed - then appeared with no warning a decade ago. I just… I don’t understand. So, who is she?” 

“Goodness - Why’s that always the first question you people ask?” he groaned, metal fingers rubbing together distinctly: “And...What are you supposed to do with something like her _birthday?_ I’ll save you the trouble - she’s a Libra.”

Sterling was not amused.

“You know that’s not what I meant. Apart from the fact that the Hu family’s been active since the Qing dynasty and she has herself as a history of murder, corruption and embezzlement, we have no notes on her motives or acquaintances,” Lance frowned, stroking his chin in thought: “However, The Fox does own a chain of casinos named called the _Perennial_ in honor of a friend… They’re the fronts for a series of money laundering operations she’s got going on and- What’s so funny?”

Killian had begun to chuckle - a low deep reverberation as easily mocking as it was genuine. _Is that what she called me? A friend? How quaint._

“The _Perennial_ \- it’s little more than a memory. We had what you would call grand larceny. We called it tradition - once a year. A perennial event. Artworks, relics, antiques, sometimes just cash. This was years ago, though. Before-”

Killian caught himself. _Before Kyrgyzstan_ never left his lips - for his throat suddenly felt bone-dry; as if he’d just swallowed a spoonful of sand. He wanted to snap Sterling’s neck; Sterling, who had began to eye him with concern. 

Instead, Killian glanced away - turning his head to peer out the window to his right and almost yelped when he came face to face with the Eyes girl; who was peering at him like a pretty fish in an aquarium. Killian froze, taking in the interest on her face with renewed disgust. 

Her glasses were truly gigantic; like window panes installed on her face. He briefly wondered if they were as much a strain on her nose and ears as the tracker was around his ankle - before noticing a small line of light flashing up and down near the bottom left corner of the glass. It was an electrocardiogram monitoring a selection of vitals. _His_ vitals, Killian noted with alarm as his heart rate picked up with the markings. He cautiously leaned away from her.

“So - what does this Miel want?” Lance blurted out: “It can’t all be about money, right?”

Killian turned to the agent; desperate to keep his mind off Eyes - who was probably seconds away from leaning over and sniffing him: “No. It’s not all about the money.” A look at the girl beside him made Killian swallow, throat grinding together like sheets of sandpaper:

“Miel wants what we all want, of course. Respect - _power._ To rule the world, or at least her world.” Killian shrugged. He didn’t add that those were the most terrifying type of people; people who would stop at nothing and sacrifice everything for their domain. To those that believed themselves underpaid by society and willing to act on it, he would waive debts and proceed with caution.

“You don’t understand. But you will - if you go after her. She’s tried to have me killed many, _many_ times. Always after a job.” Killian murmured, a warm nostalgia overflowing him. 

It was interrupted by a sputter from Sterling, though: “What...?!”

“Well, of course. It’s nothing personal. Miel has got a thing for tilting stacks in her favour. She’s murdered her own brother for goodness sake - so I can hardly complain if she tries to drop a chandelier on me once or twice.”

The look on Sterling’s face was something he would’ve liked to snap a photo of. Brows raised, mouth partially open, eyes wide in repugnance with just a dash of disbelief; he looked as if Killian had just told him he’d rigged the plane with explosives. It was a deniable possibility until given proof. In which case, proof would be provided to solidify the truth, and only worsen the situation. It was like a Schrodinger’s box of awfulness. 

“She’s… She murdered her own brother?” 

Killian stared at him, wanted to laugh at his surprise - but it would’ve been a dry one at best. So he stayed silent, waiting for Sterling to come to his own, oh-so-honourable conclusions. Miel’s actions were not his to defend. But seeing that expression, Killian’s thoughts ran free. _What if I told you that I supported that decision?_

He remembered HuMie Ri - that preppy, spineless brat. Adored by her mother and late father; what with his uncanny ability to take credit for his older sister’s victories. Mie Ri; never willing to get his hands dirty in the family business - yet ever quick to reap and flaunt the riches it provided. No, Killian never liked him very much. 

_(“He burned through thirty grand in a week! And they’re planning on giving him the reins to the family business. Do you think he’ll stop at thirty grand, my love? No - he’ll bankrupt us; rip everything that I- that_ we - _built to shreds. And still, they don’t care! It all comes down to the fact that he has a cock between his legs and I don’t.”_

_“No. You’ve something better, darling-”_

_“Oh stop it, you-! I’m tired, Killian. It’s been Mie Ri, this. Mie Ri, that. Traditions. They must live on. But Mie Ri does not.”_

_“Mmm… Very well. So; a bullet between the eyes, then? Drowning? What will it be this time?”_

_“Personal. I’ll have a job for you a month from now, darling. Until then, don’t wait up.”)_

And as Miel promised, it was the most personal disposal he had been tasked with. A month after her brother's initiation into the Hu Family business, Killian received a call from Hanzi to meet him at some house; a giant lot on the eastern side of Kowloon worth around ten million. Miel had recently purchased it for Madame Hu’s retirement, Hanzi had informed him. But before she could hand it over, there was a need to replace the boilers. 

Realisation had hit him like a semi-truck the second Killian saw the industry-sized tank that stood a level below the basement. He could still recall every detail of that room. A foot taller than himself and two meters in diameter, the boiler’s lid had been pushed ajar, and from it, came a musty stench of melted fat and the acrid tang of blood brought to boil. It invaded his nose and amassed in his mouth; solidifying into a thick, humid paste that both reeked and choked. Killian would never forget fighting back gag after gag as Hanzi pulled up a step ladder, prepared a body bag and left him and his men to deal with the poached carcass that had been known as HuMie Ri. 

The disposal had not been swift - having to obtain the correct equipment to fish the body out and empty the tank. So Killian had spent three days stuck working that room with the smell of boiled flesh and steamed skin. When they had finally managed the retrieval and examined the corpse, Killian had been horrified to see that there had been no bullet wounds, signs of blunt force trauma or any indication of a swift and painless death. 

Mie Ri had died as Miel had promised. This was as personal as it got. 

“Kills-?”

Killian realised that he had been staring blankly at Lance’s left shoulder and was suddenly very tired - despite the nap. His gaze shifted to Sterling, left hand dropping from the table to his lap. 

“You’re sending me in to see her.” It wasn’t a question.

Sterling looked at him almost impassively; like watching clouds roll through the sky.

“Yes.”

“When?”

Sterling’s eyes dropped to the watch on his wrist.

“Well, we’re an hour from landing. It’ll be 5:52 PM in Hong Kong by then. Checking into the hotel, dinner, then figuring out the transport situation… I’ll say tomorrow. After lunch.”

Killian relaxed a little at hearing that; his eyes falling to a nearby cabin window. The sky outside had lightened considerably. Grey clouds flew past them in wisps, periodically intercepted by rays of sunlight. The south China sea churned far below them - dark blue waters breaking on the occasional reef to throw up white lines of foam. As ironic as it was, Killian thought that there was nothing as grounding as flight - hearing the hum of the engines, soaring above your problems and letting the pain and hurt fade away. 

But not this time. It was a little difficult now - what with his problem sitting directly across from him. Sterling was rubbing the back of his neck in thought.

Killian wondered if Lance had ever spoken two words to Miel; much less seen her from anything other than a screen. Has Sterling ever heard of the woman up until a few hours ago? Probably not. _Lucky bastard._

“You don’t know where The Fox is - do ya, Sterling?” He finally asked. 

The agent frowned, huffing out in indignation.

“Hong Kong. Marseille. Lisbon. Baghdad, even. As it says here… How would I know?”

Killian snarled, his mood souring at Sterling’s brusque reply. 

“A simple _no_ would have sufficed.” he leaned away from him, scooting back on the reclined seat till his shoulders hit the wall. Killian’s gaze never left the window: “She would be in Kowloon this time of year. But not for long. You’ll have to let me call in first… And she won’t be alone.”

“We can arrange that.” Sterling was staring again. Killian ignored him.

“She’ll want to play a game.” His metallic hand raked over the seat’s armrest: “Chinese chess, blackjack… Once it was Russian roulette.” He smiled a little at the memory.

“So you’ll need us to...what? Open up a bank account for you?” Sterling asked, eyes wider than usual, though his tone was humoured.

“If you still think we bet with money.” Was his reply.

Sterling was mercifully quiet after that, no longer pestering him with inane questions. He turned back to the laptop as Killian drank in the view of the sea.

* * *

Upon their arrival, Marcy had been prepped with an itinerary and inspections to make. In truth though, she fully expected to free-lance her way through the process of set-up for the mission this time around. 

China was not a place that fully cared to provide for a singular, private organisation of espionage; not of its government or citizens. So saying, H.T.U.V’s standing headquarters and funds were limited at the best and non-existent at the worst along its borders. Hong Kong, however, had become a little more lax with such rules - and Marcy was glad to say that they now had garnered enough political approval to become a beta for the rest of the country in terms of allowing the agency to conduct their affairs. 

They kept their demands to a minimum - provision of adequate accommodations and transportation for all oversea agents on a mission and their consulting team. Incurred structural damage and civilian casualties (such as hospital bills and costs of repair) will be handled by the agency vault and funding channelled from other areas for a month. It was this arrangement that, for the first time in years, imposed Marcy with no expectations in arriving at their registered hotel with a mission budget of fifteen thousand dollars.

The Eclipse was a nice three-star suite on the east end of Hong Kong’s mainland, a five minute drive from the Kowloon City Government Offices. It had a nice view of the Kowloon bay and that of the road - which were much narrower than Marcy would have imagined and wove through the city like veins. Sidelined by chains of ancient shops, cluttered apartments and the abundance of streetcars that begged for upgrades just a block down, she was reminded of the disparities in the city. Hong Kong, for all its grandiose poise and luxurious reputation, made its own sacrifices through overpopulation and exemplifying the wealth gap.

Marcy checked them in by displaying her agency card at the front desk. The token of admission was examined carefully by a gaunt man in his seventies - eyes magnified by the spectacles on his face. Wrinkles formed when his brows furrowed at her card, but he nodded nonetheless and their bags were brought up by a more youthful bellhop; around the age of Walter, with cropped hair and a tight smile. 

Their rooms were charming enough, Marcy thought, upon arriving at the penthouse floor they were situated on. A modern design, giant glass windows, and a singular Alaskan king-sized bed that seeped luxury were fronted by a beautiful glass pool that made up a portion of the balcony. Hardwood floors and a kitchen space equipped with all that they would need made the area all the more domestic. With the massage jets integrated in the marble Jacuzzi in the bathroom, and the 80-inch flat screen hanging across the Italian leather couch, Marcy could almost believe that they were on vacation.

“Here,” she murmured, dropping the room key into Lance’s hand: “Room service is available from seven in the morning to nine at night… There’s also a bar downstairs-”

“A bar?” Killian interjected from across the room, setting down the decorative bowl on the coffee table, head whipping to Marcy.

“Yes - but any drinks you purchase from there are coming outta your own wallet. The agency isn’t paying for you to get wasted.” She barked back. 

Killian gave a huff of displeasure - muttering something about how _you aren’t paying me at all._ Whatever it was, Ears had given a snort of laughter behind her, while Eyes was leaned heavily on the door frame to the room; jet lag casting a fog of exhaustion over her features. Marcy decided to call it a night.

“Hold on! There’s only one bed here..?” Lance exclaimed just as Marcy was turning to unlock her room on the other side of the hall, Eyes and Ears trailing after her. 

She sighed, suppressing an eye roll. 

“Yeah. I know. The agency’s on a budget for international missions; particularly in China. Also, CROP is pretty new so we’re still testing procedures. I’ll be off in three days and you can have this room-” Marcy gestured to the door she had opened from across the hallway: “-but until then, the couch is convertible.”

The rest of the night had been relatively uneventful. The following morning came and went in a breeze as well. Marcy woke early - insisting on sleeping on the couch. The bed had been large enough for both Eyes and Ears - who had wanted her to take it. She had refused of course. So nevertheless, they felt the need to call up a breakfast of french toast and bacon early for her. 

Marcy changed, and some time after that, shuffled across the hallway once more. A knock on Lance's door was met by a moment of silence. 

She was just about to knock again when the metal frame swung open a crack. Lance peered out, alert until his eyes fell to her. 

“Oh. ‘Morning,” Lance sighed in a way that made Marcy believe he slept on the couch. He gestured for her to come in.

Marcy stepped into the living room just as Killian was exiting the bathroom with a toothbrush in his mouth. She turned to Lance:

“Have you guys had breakfast yet?”

Lance nodded and gestured to the empty plates and cups sitting on the coffee table. She looked back over to the bathroom - in which Killian had returned to bend over the sink. Marcy turned to Lance, voice softer.

“You let him sleep on the bed?”

Lance glanced at her with a scoff and shrug, rubbing the back of his neck as if he had bent it the wrong way: “Sure. He looked tired.”

Marcy didn’t add how Killian always looked tired. Lance chatted about the weather as Marcy took in the view from the glass floor-to-ceiling windows. It was barely two hours after sunrise and the city had awakened with honks of traffic and shouts of pedestrians and shop keepers alike from far below. 

Lance was in the middle of introducing Hong Kong’s weather for the week when footsteps behind her made Marcy swerve around to see Killian leaning against the wall, all dressed - looking like he was ready to go break a thousand laws as he usually does. 

“So - what will you be forcing me to do today?” He said. Marcy marvelled at how bored he managed to sound. A sharp glance at Lance was followed by: “Other than trail behind Sterling like a trained animal.”

“You’re not going to be behind him,” she dropped a hand to rest on her hip - and was pleased to notice how Killian’s eyes fell to the gun holstered there. He straightened a little as she spoke: “I’ll have you know - we want you to contact The Fox and have her meet you this afternoon. We know she’s in Kowloon.” 

Marcy watched as his eyes narrowed at her, mouth curling into a sneer.

“Meet her...and do what? Discuss how much we hate you?”

Marcy had to fight back a growl. She took a deep breath, pursed her lips, and spoke evenly: “The anklet we put on you-” she waved at his left ankle “-is both a tracker and audio device. You’ll find a way to work with her on something, bring her motives into the open… Lure her into targeting a specific place, perhaps. Once you have her divulge the details for a job in the near future, we’ll pursue it at length.”

Killian was quiet for a moment - a moment long enough for Marcy to mistake for confusion. She was just about to clarify when a sharp burst of laughter tore itself from his throat:

“You must really be not the full quid, eh?” He scoffed, then gestured at his left pant leg: “Do you think the most _feared_ Triad leader of the east wouldn’t think to pat me down? I’ll be dead before I hit the floor.”

“Perhaps,” Marcy shrugged. There was always a flaw in operating any mission. This was just one in a handful this time around: “But then again, I’ve read your files. We’re guessing you’ve amassed enough rapport with her over the years. When was the last time you were searched by a criminal acquaintance?”

Killian cocked his head to the side, brows rising in surprise. He glanced at Lance - who shrugged back _._

“I don’t know- but, that’s beside the point! You can’t-”

“True. We’re wasting time with this,” Marcy interrupted, whipping out a burner phone that Ears had picked up from some electronic store near the airport. She knew it would’ve come in handy, now shoving it into Killian’s hand: “Call. Her.”

Killian looked at Marcy as if he wanted to incinerate her on the spot. She braced herself as he sneered at her, locking onto his gaze with the venom of her own. However, no biting retort came; only a hiss of displeasure as he flipped the phone open and punched in a series of numbers. A faint whisper of a dial tone rang just as Killian was lifting the phone to his ear-

“Put it on speaker.” Lance called out, and Marcy was even more surprised when he did. The call was answered by an automated system. What sounded like a highly auto-tuned woman’s voice rolled out.

_“Welcome to the Perennial Casinos; now with locations from HK to Vegas! Unfortunately, we are now closed - as our business hours are from 5:30 PM to 7:00 AM, Monday to Saturday. To inquire about our available services, please press one. To make a reservation for a table or to check-in to one of our suites, please press two. To leave a message or review of your experience with us, please press three…_

The automated voice went on and on for what felt like hours to Marcy - but which in reality was barely a minute. She herself did not gamble so had long began to wonder just how large this casino chain had to be for eight extensions on a line-

“... _And lastly-”_ The voice suddenly dipped two decibels; a barely noticeable change if the room hadn’t been dead silent: _“-if you would like to be transferred to our 24/7 employment offices and explore those options with us, please press nine.”_

A small beep was all that came after the sentence once Killian had pressed the long-awaited number. Marcy had to stifle a groan when she heard the next few words from that robotic voice-

_“Please hold as your call is being transferred.”_

A pipa began to strum in the background; its music melodic but repetitive. Marcy sighed and took a seat on the edge of the bed, her fingers drumming the beat on her thigh. 

“Why are they open from five thirty in the afternoon to seven in the morning?” Lance blurted out after a few minutes of the music: “Isn’t that most of a night-?” 

Killian’s answer was cut short when the music died; replaced by a couple of monotone beeps before a thick, raspy voice cut through the line. It didn’t sound as old as it was vicious - like barbed wire and gravel, Marcy thought.

“ _You’ve reached the employment offices of the Perennial Casinos. My name’s Derrick Wong. How may I help you today?”_

“So Miel’s put you on service duty, huh - Taiyin?” Killian asked with a teasing sneer to his voice - though it was not unkind: “What’d you do this time?” 

A sharp inhale of breath was heard from the other side - followed by a loud guffaw:

 _“Killian! Oh man, we thought you were dead! Or at least captured.”_ A short silence followed. Marcy felt her blood freeze in her vein. _“What are you doing in Hong Kong?”_

Killian looked up at them, face a little blank before amassing his finest smirk. Not that Taiyin could’ve seen it: “I’ll rather not talk about that over the phone, Tai. Could you get me in a meeting with Miel this afternoon?”

Another short silence. Followed by-

_“Sure - one moment…”_

Marcy heard the flipping of papers from the other end and plastic folders sliding past one another. A soft hum of thought permeated the silence before Taiyin spoke again.

_“Alright - she’ll have an opening in Kowloon at one. Think you can make it by then?”_

“Only for Miel.” He smiled into the receiver. 

_“Cool man - I’ll talk to you later.”_

Before the call ended on a final, monotone _beep_ \- Marcy had already begun to organise their transit to Kowloon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notesnotesnotesnotesnotes-let's See: 
> 
> \- Translation for Miel's convo with the lawyer:  
> 叔叔- 您不懂这事情可带给您多少麻烦; 别追啦: Uncle (a form of respect - not familial), you don't understand how much trouble this could bring you. Drop the case.  
> 你感觉我怕你? 找警察来, 带着法律来, 我们再谈!: Do you think I'm afraid of you? Find the police, bring the law. Then we'll talk!  
> 带着法律来? 您还是不懂. 我就是法律. 啊， 真是可惜...: Bring the law? You still don't understand. I am the law. Ah, what a pity...
> 
> \- There are certain instances in Chinese culture where parents would give the child away if it's a girl as sexism is still pretty strong in some conservative households. Male children are more desired than female children so the disparity between Miel and Mie Ri could have been warranted. Not that fratricide is cool. She's freakin' psychotic. 
> 
> \- I had to split chapter 7 into chapter 7 and chapter 8 so now it's actually chapter 7 and chapter 8 instead of chapter 7 but y'all can treat chapter 7 and chapter 8 as chapter 7.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Into the den...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before we get started - Shout out to all my pals on discord who've been so supportive to Miel's creation oh my god- I frickin' love you guys!!!!  
> I made a pen on paper piece of Miel and shout out to XxStar-BluesxX on tumblr and ao3 who has made the lovely landscape crimson and black one; which perfectly incorporates Miel's sassy style and sharp-ass cheekbones (Stolen from Killian, obviously)! I LOVE-- <3  
> 

The trip to the western end of Hong Kong felt shorter than Killian recalled - though it could’ve just been the hot summer air or humidity fogging his mind. 

Kowloon was the shadowy brethren of all the regions in Hong Kong; the black sheep of the family. It had been the former habitation of the Kowloon Walled City and major duellings of the Triad. In the past decades, however, it had undergone reformation that made it presently unrecognisable. Dirty alleys left sanitised for years had been paved away for lush greeneries, fountains, towering pines and gorgeous spruces that gave life to the city within a city. Roads were paved and vermin-infested hostels torn down to make way for shopping malls, plazas, hospitals and eateries. But the man-made construction still paled in comparison to where they were heading now.

Devil’s Peak sat at the southeastern end of Kowloon - rocky terrain covered by vegetation that overlooked Kowloon Bay. Its base was frequented by tourists; but very little hikers actually dared to mount the Peak during the summer - when the sun’s rays scorched the fortifications atop it bone-dry. Old stone ramparts garrisoned by the British Army in the 20th century and prior to that, by local pirates in the 19th century, stood like tributes to the past in a city dominated by modernism. Perhaps that was good, though. There was history in the weathered bricks that made up parapets and wove itself into walls and platforms - now guarded from renovation by the rocky terrain.

Killian had directed them to the eastern end of the Peak. However, the agency-issued taxi dropped them off much further from the base of the mountain than he would’ve liked. So they trudged up the trail on foot - Lance fronting the procession, followed by Killian and tailed by Marcy in conjunction with Eyes and Ears. 

It was a quarter to one when they finally reached the platform dug into the side of the trail. The stone path overgrown by hedges and weeds, overshadowed by forests, had been cleared a hundred meters ahead. The dapple filtering of light amongst the trees and which had cast their journey in a warm, neutral haze faded behind them. Up until now, Killian could have believed that this was nothing more than a walk in the park. 

Except- parks didn’t usually have large stone fox statues positioned every nine hundred meters from each other along the slope. To Killian, they were haunting; like returning to a childhood playground now rusted and abandoned. When one of the stone foxes finally appeared directly before them on the path, rearing its head and haunches in an animistic snarl, he stopped.

“This is it.” He said simply. Sterling turned to him, confusion plain on his face. 

“Where?” 

Killian sighed, and pointed to the clearing a hundred meters ahead. “Up there. It’s a cavern; carved into the side of the mountain.”

“No way- so that’s why thermal imaging isn’t working!” Eyes gasped, inching forwards to stand beside him: “She buried all the pipelines under the mountain? And used natural cooling?”

“Wait- But how would she generate enough energy to pump the water up from the bay? Or is there a secondary source nearby?” Ears jumped in, suddenly much closer to Killian than he would’ve thought possible. Swiveling his hand-held satellite about, Killian flinched back in haste to avoid being clipped in the elbow by the hefty metal plate.

“Bugger off,” He snarled at them, now practically elbow-to-elbow. Killian fought the urge to rip the girl’s glasses and powder it with his left hand, consequences be damned: “I don’t have time to explain quantum perpetual motion engineering to a wombat and a human carrot. You drongos gonna shut up now?”

But instead of being hurt or offended as Killian had hoped, the two snickered light-heartedly and proceeded with their conversation behind them. He glanced back at Kappel, but she had remained mercifully quiet in this altercation, busy linking up the audio to the tracker on his leg. Killian glanced back at Sterling: 

“Stay here. Or try to sneak in and die. I don’t care,” Killian shrugged. He brushed past the agent, stepping around the snarling fox statue - left hand folded behind him.

“When will you be back?” He called. 

Killian didn’t bother turning around to answer him: “An hour or so. And don’t touch the statues unless you never want to walk again.”

He didn’t bother to see what Sterling thought about that. Instead, Killian placed one foot after the other towards the top of the clearing, the tracker biting into his ankle like a mark of death.

* * *

Wuxia was nothing if not guarded and consistent. To serve the Hu Family bloodline as her mother, father, and ancestors had before her, this was natural. It was as much her duty as it was her honor. To guard them is in her blood - as it was her brother’s to murder for them.

Not that she was any less able to tell one end of a Baikal-442 from another. Wuxia had killed for Miel, bled for Miel; but in a different way than Hanzi. While her brother was placed in the spotlight for every kill-shot and named _Reaper of the East_ as Miel’s go-to worker, Wuxia kept her safe, healthy. Her job was done in the dark so that Miel might live in the light. And as for her twin - well, it wasn’t any of her concern if Miel wanted to share that light with him as well. 

But sometimes - _sometimes_ \- she wondered if it was remotely possible they weren’t born of the same womb with any similarity in the brain. For who in their right mind would bring _Tristan_ bloody _McFord_ within ten feet of any site without notifying the supervising vanguard? Much less one now occupied by the Mistress herself?

Hanzi - that’s who; walking in with a large smile on his face - like a dog retrieving a frisbee. The men around her had begun to shift with unease; some with hands already at their holsters - waiting for the signal to pounce. Killian (she still couldn’t _fathom_ the reasoning behind that alias, even after all these years- _Killian?_ ) was striding in beside them, left hand curled in a disarming way behind his back. Wuxia knew better.

Miel’s summer retreat in Kowloon was designed to be impenetrable; with a small entrance and behemoth belly housing a fireplace that rivaled the one in Versailles, luxury seats set with historical tapestries and a maze of rooms even she was not fully privy to. The design of the housing within the mountain amplified all sound coming from the entrance. It was a common rumor that the drop of a marble at the door could be heard from anywhere on the compound. 

In this way, her brother, his guest and their steps _clicking_ across the hall carved from stone were loud as they could be to Wuxia. The sound echoed across the cool, cavernous walls running with moisture and rough with age. Light from the webbing of glass fixtures above illuminated Hanzi’s proud features and Killian’s permanently stern gaze; though Wuxia found there to be something wrong with the man. His steps were less sure - cautious and more precise than they were trained on a destination. He also seemed less… exhausted than normal? 

Whatever it was, he’s changed - and change would always be disconcerting to a bodyguard. Her hand gave a final squeeze to the back of the stone seat as she stepped in front of Miel, or at least tried to before being halted by a manicured hand.

“让我来吧.”

_Let me handle this._

Miel rose from her seat and Wuxia watched as she moved towards Killian, a small smirk curling the edge of her lip up. When she embraced him with a kiss on either the cheek that was returned in greeting. Hanzi would later tell Wuxia that she had squeaked in alarm.

“Mie Liang,” he drawled, head dipping a little with a smile at her: “Congratulations on overtaking the yakuza, by the way. ”

Miel hummed a little, hands crossed before her. An index finger rested on her chin precariously. Wuxia marveled at how she gazed at Killian - like someone surveying a map for gold; though she caught the small pitch in her voice when she spoke. It was odd, hearing surprise from Miel.

“That’s kind - but you didn’t come all this way for a few kind words, no?” She smiled - but the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. But before Killian could reply, she had strode a circle around him, eyeing the arm bent behind his back: “You’re really back then?”

Killian waited till she was in front of him again to respond.

“Yes,” He breathed, and Wuxia was suddenly overcome by restlessness. Something was _off_ , she felt it, and looked over at her twin to see if he sensed it as well. Hanzi wore the same expression he had walking in; carefree joy that spoke of upwind obstructed headshots made at an impressionable distance; though it could’ve just been a word of praise from Mistress. Nevertheless, the discomfort didn’t drain from her at his apparent cluelessness. If anything, it heightened the anxiety that something was _off._

The tension dissipated though - when Miel turned on her charm as Wuxia had so often seen her do. Swinging an arm around Killian as if he was a long-lost friend, she called for them to clear a table; let up some chairs. If this was to be business, then let it be handled in the ways of old. 

The room glazed over again; chatter permeating the floor as they all settled to their tasks - men gambling, some drinking - more planning. Wuxia felt the restlessness slide from her like a chill as Killian passed by her, imposing. They settled down into the enormous obsidian table covered by felt at a corner of the great hall before the fireplace.

Wuxia retook her place behind Miel and tried to calm the pounding in her heart. A dealer was called over, but she cared not for the game. Instead, her gaze was fixed on the new prosthetic Killian had; which seemed to squeeze her heart like a vice. It had no similarities with the old model; tuned to the size of a normal hand. Its fingers reminded her of a grim reaper’s; or a normal hand with the flesh melted off and replaced by metal knobs, pistons, and bars of steel. It couldn’t have been engineered by Killian himself - that wasn’t his style. 

_He shows up, weeks after going under. He failed. The agency still exists, he’s still alive - and he has a new arm._ Wuxia ran through the possibilities of this visit and what could have possibly happened between three weeks and now. McFord would never work with the agency; not in a thousand years… Would he? And if not, what does he want now? 

Wuxia would find out.

* * *

Miel was just as he remembered, Killian thought. 

He had adored her once; the woman with the ageless white hair, black spears that twisted from her earlobes like daggers. He had loved - had tried to hold onto - those eyes brimming with knowledge that have toppled empires and vanquished foes beyond his comprehension; and it had cost him dearly.

Killian wondered time and time again if it could be called love. Perhaps, it was more so a misplaced fear. For if there was anyone to fear, it would be the lady in the white leather dress, studded and fanning out behind her. A giant fur boa crossed through her arms and draped over her back enveloped her upper body in a snowy mane. Her lower half, though, was accentuated by a mermaid cut and (he didn’t need to count them to know) nine tails from the dress sliced in pieces that fanned and dragged behind her; kissing the floor with the same grace as their wearer. 

Now seated at the table, once again betting for favors, Killian was overcome with memories of making deals with this she-demon to make peace with his own. The last time they had met, he had been lucky. Drunk off madness, and won with a hand of fortune; a hand of pure luck. He had walked out of that very room with a contract to fund the death of up to five thousand people and it was _marvelous_. Now? Killian wasn’t sure if he’ll make it out with his life.

“No-limit Texas hold’em-” Miel introduced, spreading her arm across the table and nodding at the dealer; a short burly man with a piggish nose and unkempt beard: “-with table stakes at a half. Four thousand in the big blind.”

“So be it.” Killian tried a smile, though it fell short - landing on a smirk. To the left of the dealer, Miel sat in the small blind. Hole cards were slid to each of them as well as stacks of chips. Killian ignored the chips for now. They held no value to him… They were playing for favors, after all. 

Instead, he carefully lifted the corner of the two cards and beheld double jacks; diamond and heart. Perhaps there was hope after all.

“I’ll raise you to eight thousand.” Miel purred and Killian felt that hope waver. His hand was at the minimum, one pair; but there was no point counting the outs now. 

He calls, and the three flop cards are revealed: 10H, 3D, 6S. 

“Tell me-,” Miel asked him suddenly, shuffling the chips about: “How did they do it?”

“Pardon?” Killian glanced up. She had tilted her head to one side. The plumes of white atop her head danced like mercury in the light.

“I gave you fifty million dollars, darling,” Miel purred, now rolling a poker chip over her knuckles. Killian didn’t miss the glistening of silver polish on her stiletto-shaped nails, sharp enough to pierce through skin. Their ends, he knew, were coated in foxglove extract. Blurred vision, nausea, vomiting, convulsions… That was not how he wanted to go. 

“Fifty million is no small investment. So tell me-” She continued. The nails clicked as the chip vaulted over her right digits before coming to a final stop between her index and thumb: “ _How_ did they do it?" 

Killian had to choke down a swallow.

“Luck,” he nodded. From past experiences, in-depth explanations usually led nowhere with Miel. Killian had never known her to ask a question she did not already know the answer to.

“Check,” Miel sighed, and Killian followed, tapping on the table with his right hand. The turn was dealt - QH. Killian decided to change the subject - he was here for something, anyway.

“You know about my business, I suppose,” he stated lightly. A smile graced her lips. “You still laundering?”

A movement shifted his gaze, and Killian was suddenly aware of the dark-haired woman behind Miel with arms clasped behind her back. 

“Always, love. Raise to twelve thousand. ” Miel murmured, throwing in a couple of chips.

“Call.” He said and did the same.

“But do I?” Miel asked once the river was revealed; a king of diamonds. Killian’s heart jumped, head tilted at her in genuine confusion. Miel shook her head:

‘Do I know about your business - _now_?” She wondered. Her eyes seemed to glide across him like a knife on a whetstone; before landing at his left hand, which he had braced against the table. Killian knew he was under the axe. 

“They took it all,” he growled beneath his breath - hoping it sounded as convincing as it felt: “So yes, my business has not changed, Miel. I want what I’ve always wanted. No amount of profits lost could ever alter that.”

Killian saw her jaws tighten. A pair of brown eyes narrowed at him from across the table.

“You were gone for three weeks.” 

There was something about looking into the face of death that made one suddenly embrace the tranquility of existence and the bridge between. Killian’s voice was calm, almost harmonic when he spoke. It was the voice of acceptance.

“I was gone for three weeks.”

He slid his cards over to the dealer, not daring to glance at her. From her peripherals. she followed suit and the hands were revealed. Killian felt his blood freeze at the jack of spades and nine of the clubs she had held. Miel said nothing at her victory. She never did.

They played another round, one which Killian wasn’t even sure how he won; given a hand of 4S and 2H; then with some stroke of luck, took the turn by a guaranteed three of a kind. The river ended with little conversation - the tension palpable.

But before the last round could begin and the final cards dealt, Killian was seized by a sharp convulsion in his left leg. He fought the sudden intake of charge with a barely audible hiss. It would have been concealable if his knee hadn’t jumped and caught the edge of the table with a dull _thud_. 

Miel looked up - her eyes now search beams that held every ounce of suspicion so thinly veiled by compassion.

“Are you alright?” Interrogatory were the words uttered. 

Killian nodded with a wave of his hand; as nonchalantly as possible by someone who’s just been tased. 

“I’m fine,” he nodded an apology - even as the anklet continued to dig into his skin. As his entire leg felt more and more like gelatin, Killian had never been more grateful for a chair in his life.

But before Miel could press for more, Hanzi had strode over to the woman behind Miel - pulling her to the side. A few words were exchanged in succession that Killian would not have bothered with - if not for the fact that the dark-haired woman kept shooting him glances of concern… If it could be called concern _._ To Killian, it looked more like paranoia. 

Before long, the woman had returned to Miel’s side and bent down to level her lips to Miel’s ear; small strands of raven hair escaping her bun to frame her face. She whispered with a hand shielded from Killian’s direction. 

Miel nodded abruptly after a few seconds and barked a few orders to some men at the door in mandarin before turning to Killian. He got up slowly, careful to place more weight on his right. 

“Let’s call this a tie, shall we?” Miel grinned softly; a smile of teeth. Killian shook her extended hand and returned a smile of his own. A tie meant a favor each and was quite rare, but he welcomed them. Losing to Miel was almost as bad as winning. 

“Of course. Ladies first,” he nodded at her. Killian would be lying if he said a chill hadn’t run down his spine as Miel grazed the nail across the back of his hand. It was as much a threat in hushed tones as it was a signature to a contract.

“I’m looking to gain a viable replacement for natural gas and petroleum. The yakuza’s supply is not limitless,” Miel dropped his hand, and Killian fought the urge to inspect it for any cuts: “Not electrical energy though - I have no stakes in that regard, but still powerful enough for transcontinental travel by plane. I hope you may provide something that can power flight from here to Vegas at the very least; Bolivia at the most.”

Killian nodded: “A design, then? Blueprints, schematics…?”

“No.” Miel fixed him her gaze that rivaled the steel in his arm: “I want it all. Blueprints, model, and integration. You’ll be on my employment terms until its completion. The landing got renovated to Kai Tak - we start on Monday.” 

Killian nodded: “And what might I gain this time?” 

Miel shrugged and strode over to a table on the side topped with a box of cigars and an array of alcohols from bourbon to vodka. Miel filled a glass with some type of brandy.

“What you’ve always wanted. _What no amount of profits lost could ever alter_.” The fur boa seemed to move in an invisible breeze as Miel turned, a brow raised, mouth curled in a small sneer. Killian could hardly believe the offer.

“To settle the score, no?” She sighed, the tantalizing caramel of cognac wavering in the air. Killian watched as she lifted the glass in a one-sided toast to him in a way that once again, brought back the belief in vengeance.

* * *

They had returned to the taxi at some point. Lance didn’t really know. 

An hour and a half of waiting and the sun had begun to shift at an angle that rendered even the leafy greens above them useless against the heat. The conversation heard from the tracker was picked up quite well even in the car; but it had suddenly fizzed on a little after that. Distance or obstruction was not an issue, as vitals and such were still visible. Except now, no audio came through. 

“What the hell-” Lance had called from the driver’s seat - ripping out the headphones. Eyes jumped awake beside him and he saw Ears flinch from the back.

“What? What is it?” Marcy shot forward, and noticed the disconnection and lack of audio. She grabbed the laptop from him and rapidly entered a few lines of commands. She looked up after a minute, eyes wide.

“They’ve set up an EMT,” she hissed. 

Lance could only watch as Marcy rapid-fired up a program that managed to hack the audio from the anklet back online after two, torturous minutes - though it was too late. Lance was left puzzling over something about an employment as Killian and Miel bid their goodbyes.

Killian returned a quarter of an hour later. He looked a little more than unhappy trudging back to the car, Eyes informed them helpfully. 

“Alright _;_ who’s bright idea was it to tase me in the middle of all _that_?” Were the first words out his mouth once Lance had typed in the coordinates back to the hotel and turned on the ignition. When Marcy remained silent, Lance glanced up into the rearview mirror, unsure of how to respond. 

Thankfully, he didn’t have to - as Ears piped up.

“When the EMT kicked the anklet offline, the programming must have mistaken it for a tampering of the system, man.” He replied with a shrug: “You good, though?”

Killian glared at Ears from the other side of the door across Marcy’s seat - as if about to snap. Lance quickly chimed in:

“So yeah - the audio cut out. Could you tell us what happened at the end there?” Lance cut in, a hand resting on the wheel as the car propelled itself around a turn, now back on the road.

“I don’t have much of a choice, do I?” Killian asked, shoulders falling onto the seat with a heavy sigh, glancing out the window. The car sped onto the road; now lost in a sea of traffic.

Lance shrugged: “No… I suppose not.”

Killian stared out the window as if checking the blindspots. Asphalt raced past them, along with the fuming Hong Kong sun. Lance had never seen him so alert; as if in fear of pursuit.

“Get us back first,” Killian hissed, a little paler than normal.

Lance nodded - deciding that it was probably safer anyway. He reached forwards and pressed a few modifications to their route. The car swerved onto the next opening; leaving nothing but a cough of carbon and a track of rubber down the expressway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things to address:  
> \- I kid you not there is a legit place called Devil's Peak in Kowloon, Hong Kong; It got its name from the ferocious pirates who once occupied the hill during the Ming Dynasty era. It was the home of the famous pirate Cheng Lin Cheong. Also, someone died of a heat stroke while climbing it in 2019. 
> 
> \- Learned poker for will smith pigeon movie fanfic y'all! I only know Texas hold 'em though lol


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "When you embark on the journey of revenge, dig two graves." - Confucius

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Miel Art Below!!! Big thanks to TornbyDreams (torn-by-dreams and t-mcford on tumblr) for this beautiful emerald rendition. Absolutely Spectacular. Her jawline is that of someone who eats telephone poles for breakfast, after coating them with a sheen of cyanide.

When Lance passed the extra carry-on to Killian, he wasn’t sure what he expected in terms of a reaction… But this was probably as good as it got.

It was beyond comedic how carefully Killian was handling the suitcase - unzipping it as if working the wires of a bomb. He flipped the covering open in one quick motion, holding the valise out at arm’s length and leaning back to a point where Lance was seriously impressed he didn’t just fall over. 

There were no explosives of course, and he merely watched in amusement as Killian angled himself forwards in his chair. His shoulders tensed with caution that bordered on cowardice; only to reach within the case and withdraw a series of sweaters, pants, and dress shirts. 

“What’s this?” He murmured at Lance, head swiveling from himself to the suitcase in a way that was just too  _ owl-ish _ . Lance felt waves of laughter rising in his chest.

“Clothes.” He smiled instead: “I would take you shopping for your size but didn’t know when that would be. So I packed a few outfits just in case-”

“They’re yours?” Killian interrupted, blinking at him.

He shrugged, reclining back on the couch.

“You know you’re a little taller than me, right?” Killian huffed after turning back to the offending articles, and Lance couldn’t hold back chuckles at how irked he sounded.

“Sure, but you can still try them on for now. We’ll get you fitted eventually,” Lance smirked, before turning back to his laptop. He glanced up every so often as Killian continued to rummage through the rest of the case. He would occasionally hold up razors and aftershave as if they were alien artifacts rather than just last-minute provisions Lance threw together. 

Of course, there was no matter pointing that out. All of  _ this _ was last-minute, Lance thought. In fact, he still couldn’t fathom how quick the week’s gone by; that he was actually halfway across the world, in a Hong Kong hotel, handling someone that would probably rather gargle acid than be taking orders from him. 

Except, well, that wasn’t all true. Killian had actually been a lot more cooperative than Lance would have expected from someone that tried to topple the agency through mass murder. Though it could’ve just been Marcy and the anklet, he had remained rather honest about everything since stepping off the plane. In this way, Lance had begun to learn novelties about him and his world every day.

For instance, Killian had introduced him to the Kai Tak runway as the place where he’ll be spending most of his time. Apparently the Fox had employed him to work on optimizing a transcontinental source of power for her jets. On the basis of his engineering experience (which came as an evident shock to Lance), Killian was charged with constructing and integrating some cell or other into dozens of Hu Family aircrafts - situated within some behemoth warehouse. 

Lance had attempted to monitor the site along with engaging in some low-level recon before realizing that it was borderline impossible. The warehouse stood at the end of the Kai Tak runway and from the way that it’s gated; with the exit and entrance being the same and the water on all sides maintained by Triad members disguised as fishermen, Lance’s notepad remained mostly empty. So now he entertained himself through working from the hotel and sending taxis to facilitate Killian’s daily travels.

In retrospect, though, Lance preferred it this way. Killian’s reports were consistent and from him, Lance was actually able to establish more knowledge of the Fox’s aliases, connections, fronts, and domains than all the resources gathered by the agency in the past decade alone. But now it was Saturday - and Lance had little to do except station his sights on the largest airstrip in Hong Kong; making notes on a blueprint of the site for Joy. His fingers flew over the keyboard, recalling a series of information on the Kai Tak runway… 

_...Opened from 1925 to ‘98; upon which it became closed as regulations tightened with surrounding high residential buildings and mountainous ranges in the distance of take-off. Untouched for three years after that as the sixth most dangerous airstrip in the world, it was later purchased in 2001 by the Hu Triad Family - now disguised as a private company for the import and export services of global… _

Lance stopped, blinking at the screen, his mind suddenly blank. Killian was still sitting on the purple suede wingback near the window. The seat would have made him look almost regal - if he wasn’t hunched over the coffee table, rummaging through the suitcase like a dedicated archeologist. 

“Hey - what did you say they transported again?” Lance asked, a hand grazing his chin in thought.

“Tobacco.” Killian's gaze was still glued to the case as he ran a hand along a navy linen shirt in slight admiration of the fabric. It was a routine they had fallen into. Lance would ask a question out of nowhere, Killian would answer it; at first, begrudgingly. Now, there was only a mild exasperation to his words; as if explaining the alphabet to a child. 

Lance didn’t mind it either way - just as long as he got the information he needed. 

He spent the rest of the afternoon typing up the report, along with making some more schematics. Lance was only partially aware of Killian packing everything back into the suitcase carefully and getting up after an hour. He returned a few minutes later with a binder of papers and some pens to lounge on the armchair, flipping through them to periodically scribble down some numbers and make a few calculations. Lance didn’t know about the specifics of what he was doing, nor wanted to bother asking him. It didn’t really matter, he thought as he turned back to his laptop.

The hours ticked by and the morning made way for noon; when the sun-baked down on the streets below and made Lance grateful for the roof over his head and the hotel's AC blasting from the vents. But nevertheless, it was a Saturday. And Lance was tired of room service and the pre-made three-star meals from the kitchen downstairs. Not to mention being cooped up for a week...Truly. Was Killian the prisoner, or was it Lance?

He looked to the man on the purple wingback, still fully immersed in his work. 

“Let’s go out for lunch.” He thus stated, breaking through the silence.

Killian looked up with nothing short of a glare. Lance noticed his hold on a ballpoint tighten.

“No.” His response, albeit brief, weighed in the air.

Lance only rolled his eyes; closing his laptop and moving it onto the coffee table.

“C’mon-” Lance shrugged, hopping up to round the couch before bracing his arms against the backing: “I’ve never been in Hong Kong, you know? You could show me around-”

“And why on earth would I do that?” Killian’s eyes narrowed at Lance. He hardly shifted from his position on the chair, eyes cast ever downwards on the pages in his lap. Lance felt the pool of his patience begin to evaporate.

“Cuz I said so. Now c’mon.” Lance huffed, turning on his heels and striding to the door. He didn’t look back to see if Killian was indeed following him - but judging by the heavy sigh and footsteps light as can be, Lance felt it safe to assume that he was.

* * *

There were few places in the world that made Killian as nervous as where Lance is hauling him through now.

As they wove through the market quarters of downtown Hong Kong, he thought that if the city lacked luster, they certainly made up for it by sheer culture. An unshakeable history laid beneath the pavement; pavement that ran with lines of asphalt holding together the cracks from countless feet. While shopkeepers called out the day’s freshest produce in a mix of English, Mandarin, and Cantonese, locals and tourists alike squeezed themselves against each other to maintain their position on the sidewalk. Banners of metal extending from either side of the street blotted out the sky in a rainbow of colors to advertise their goods, every ounce fighting for control. It was a place of survival - with people turned into schools of sardines feeding on what felt like every eatery, clothing store, electronics hub, and souvenir shop in existence. 

Claustrophobia had long seized Killian’s throat almost as tightly as Sterling’s hold on his left arm. Though it was perhaps a good thing the agent was pressed against Killian as he was. What with his prosthetic hand sandwiched between them, Killian was at least able to avoid the passing looks of unapologetic curiosity from the locals. Now wasn’t really the time for the occasional glance of horror.

Yet Killian could not shake off that feeling of uneasiness even as Lance wondered if they should just get takeout. It was hot, after all. He felt himself nod, his eyes scanning the crowds and mind far from whatever Sterling was now babbling about. He was only mildly aware of being tugged to a stop near some wanton shop; the fabric awning of which made a melodic flutter in the breeze. 

As they waited in line, Killian couldn’t help but drum his prosthetic against his thigh. It helped with his panic a little; the metallic digits pressing -  _ digging  _ \- into his femur repetitively despite a lack of rhythm. He was still drumming lightly when Sterling gave his arm a small squeeze.

“What?” Killian spun to him, voice low. He was met by Sterling’s creased brows and tawny eyes dropping to his prosthetic as if to make a point. Killian froze and began to redden with the realization that, due to the proximity, his tapping had brushed a series of metallic knuckles against Lance’s thigh as much as he had dug into his own. 

“You alright?” Sterling muttered to him, and Killian wanted to die right there.

Instead, he ripped his arm from Lance’s hold and stepped to the side, suddenly wishing to put as much space between them as possible. He scanned their surroundings once more before speaking: “We shouldn’t be here.”

“Why not?” Lance breathed, now completely unbothered as he exchanged a couple of bills for an opaque bag heavy with containers of soup and dumplings. His indifference grated Killian’s nerves more than it should have.

“Miel has spies - from gutters to rooftops. And you’re not exactly-” Killian stopped as Lance lifted the bag from the counter and received his change - wondering how to tell the agent that he’s pretty much the scourge of the criminal underground without fattening that sky-scraping ego. 

Too late though, Lance was staring at him like a smoked, A-5 wagyu. 

“Not exactly what?”

Killian took a deep breath, but the words rasped his throat anyway: “You know  _ what _ , Sterling. Now let’s fuckin’ go.”

When they left in the midday sun, Killian tried not to whirl around too often; or at least scan his surroundings casually, and with less paranoia. He knew Miel had just about every age on her payroll, but Killian tried to convince himself that the list could not be endless. He ducked around surprisingly vigilante mobs of the elderly and kept his face turned from the sharp-eyed youths.

“What are you - afraid of crowds?” Lance smirked at one point. Of course, the agent noticed his jumpiness; as easily as Killian grasped his indifference. 

“Would you walk faster if I said yes?” Killian hissed, now prodding Lance forward to speed up what felt like a phlegmatic pace. His neck strained from looking over his shoulder and his vision was overwhelmed by a sea of colored fabric, vests, and faces too ordinary to be trusted. His heartbeat picked up every time they were caught behind a line or when someone’s gaze landed on his own; even the most impassive somehow twisting into recognition. 

But when the horde tightened around them until Killian could only focus on not tripping over his own feet, he relinquished his light pushes and glued himself to Sterling instead, nudging him forward with his shoulder as they moved through the endless swells of bodies.

* * *

Lance wanted to be worried - but just... Couldn’t. 

Between Killian’s anxiety-ridden body language and almost deluded sense of security, he didn’t know how to calm his nerves besides weaving through the crowd as nimbly as possible. However, it was weirdly good to know that the man possessed almost no subtlety. He didn’t miss how Killian had selectively ensured that his right side was turned into him on their return trip - nor that he wordlessly insisted on walking on the outside of the road, eyes scanning the crowds with great wariness. He let his left arm swing stiffly by his side as well - cadaverous metal fingers throwing silvery streaks of sunlight back with an undiluted ferocity.

“Kills, could you relax-?” Lance finally decided to hiss at him after being shouldered by a middle-aged woman for making a sharper-than-necessary turn around a corner. The woman had called back with something that sounded a little nastier than “ _ watch where you’re going”  _ as she steadied her purse. 

Killian glanced up, tossed a gaze around them, and huffed in a voice so low, Lance had to lean in to hear him: “You don’t understand. Miel. What she’s capable of-” Another glimpse at the crowds cut him short. Lance waited for him to take a deep breath: 

“What do you think will happen if she sees me with you? The spy that’s put most of her resources and partners under the radar? What do you think she’ll  _ do _ to me?” 

Lance could see their hotel just up ahead, its red bricks a warm beacon of safety - if Killian’s words were to be believed. The fact is, this wasn’t the first time Killian had brought up his concerns of ever leaving the hotel with Lance in tow - always with that edge in his voice. Well, consider it another case proven. Lance didn’t think anyone could’ve faked this “ _ death-in-pursuit”  _ shtick. 

They made it back with no further discussion. 

The following days melted together in both sharp reality and a dream-like haze. Lance moved into the room Marcy had occupied around the start of the week and a routine began to establish itself. Apart from sleeping, showering, and getting dressed in his room, Lance found that Killian naturally gravitated to him for meals. A typical day began with Killian knocking on his door (Lance always ordered breakfast for two), then departing before reconvening again in the afternoon for a little meeting on his findings. Oftentimes, it was four or five sentences on the Fox's most recent travel plans and names of current business partners - but such information was good as gold for the agency; and so much more than Lance could have hoped to gain on his own.

Perhaps it got a little tedious after a few days, occasionally monitoring audios and doing research without operating in the field, but Lance got used to it. He adapted and found entertainment in his spare time. He picked up a few phrases of mandarin and scoured the markets for fresh produce, herbal tea, and recipes from the locals to cook a nice midday meal. He browsed the streets for trinkets and took a particular liking to incense and Chinese calligraphy of which Hong Kong brimmed with. On one occasion, Lance even managed to obtain a sky lantern near some booths that sold kites - along with a pack of matches.

Things were going well, overall. It took a couple of days of convincing - but gradually, even Killian eased up a little after falling into a more stable schedule. From attending dinner in the hotel’s restaurant to leaving for dessert and late-night shopping, Lance managed to drag Killian out of the hotel on small ventures, periodically. He found that Killian’s apprehension usually faded with daylight and the hustle and bustle of the streets - and was quite alright with walking off a fulfilling meal with Lance in the evenings as Lance spoke about the shops he so frequented and recipes he collected during the day. 

In fact, it was with no small surprise when Lance first realized that Killian was quite a good listener when he didn’t have massacre in mind. Perhaps it was those large ears - he had thought on more than one occasion while keeping to sideroads and skirting around the crowded shopping malls and large intersections. Lance would often narrate what some of the shops would sell when they were open, and stop at those that were. 

And Killian would listen - as first with annoyed glances. But as the days went on, the glares and sneers thawed into frowns of concentration, as if committing Lance’s every word to memory. At other times, he would ask a question almost enough to be random while simultaneously so thought-provoking it bordered on rhetorical. 

“Do you ever wonder what you would do if you didn’t work for them?” 

Tonight was the latter sort of times, it seemed. 

As usual, Lance was taken aback. They had stopped in an empty square - a plaza of sorts; overshadowed by large oaks in marble planters and polished benches, yet lit up with string lights wrapping around the trunks of the trees to bath the linoleum of the area in a vapor of warmth. It was hard to imagine that they’ve just walked through soot-stained streets run amuck with feral dogs and blocks that have not seen the mercy of plumbers and carpenters for lifetimes. But such was Hong Kong - a city unapologetic for her divide between wealth and poverty. 

He was still staring at him though, and Lance felt his tongue turn to lead in his mouth. A gentle breeze washed through the air - swirling through Killian’s salt and pepper hair that looked more pepper than salt when bathed in that marigold glow. His head was cocked to one side lightly, and his footfalls had stopped to maintain a stance with both hands folded behind his back. He had a look in his eyes that Lance did not recognize; like something between guarded and hopeful.

By  _ them _ , Lance knew he meant the agency. But he didn’t know what to say - having never considered a life better than the one he led now. What was more exciting than espionage? Than traveling the world as a vigilante? What could possibly be more important than giving one’s life to saving the world? 

So Lance shook his head, and immediately regretted it. Killian’s gaze darkened into one that Lance, unfortunately, now did recognize. Animosity pulled his upper lip up into a scornful smile. 

“Of course.” He let out, teeth gritted. Lance’s suit jacket, draped over his shoulders, swirled as he turned.

_ You could’ve lied. You could’ve literally said anything!  _ Lance mentally kicked himself before swallowing his remorse. He watched Killian’s retreating figure in the night make a few meters before he willed himself to follow.

It’ll take time, Lance knew - but that’s okay. So do most things.

* * *

Walter had never cat-sat for anyone before and as usual, grossly underestimated the effort that the situation required. 

But that was hardly his fault! Marcy had made it sound so easy. She had the condo stocked with a week’s amount of wet and dry food (though Walter should never feed the cats more than twice a day - and wet food only every other day). Three of the five cats were toilet trained. And even though Donnie and Danny shared a litter box, Marcy had assured Walter that she owned a self-cleaning model; and thus he can forgo all worries of waste management saved for changing a plastic bag thrice a week. So Walter had agreed to spend some time with the cats - it couldn’t be that hard, right? He threw some change of clothes together and some toiletries before heading over by bus with Lovey’s cage and seeds in hand. 

When Walter had first arrived at her place, he had been shocked at the size of the interior - which proved to be a lot more spacious than the outside suggested. Marcy had given him a couple of pointers; shown him the guest room upstairs and relinquished him free reign of her kitchen, rustic bookshelves of classics, indoor theatre setup in the basement, and HBO account whenever he wished. Walter had thanked her profusely and adamantly refused monetary payment in any way before bidding her goodbye and good luck on a week’s trip to Hong Kong.

The condo was huge, and for the first few days, Walter was sure that despite the absolute disparities in the cat’s personalities, they’ll get along just fine. Except...Not exactly. Nothing was ever  _ just fine. _ Marcy’s feline companions became  _ very _ difficult to rally,  _ very _ quickly. 

Donnie and Danny were not only tabbies with a lot more energy than Walter thought possible for cats their size but also professional troublemakers with almost humanoid intelligence. He could only describe the two as inseparable, insufferable partners in crime - of which Walter had been on the receiving end of too many times. The ol’ scream and snatch was their favorite by far - in which Donnie (or Danny - their near-identical orange fur made the two pretty much the same cat duplicated) would yowl from another room as Walter was eating. When he got up to check on them, the other would break away with as much of his plate as possible. Being that he couldn’t  _ not  _ check on a cat yodeling its head off (as they were disturbingly good at feigning pain), Walter now ate from Tupperware.

Compared to the deceiving duo though, he found that the others were relatively peaceful. Jon was a sure-footed but demanding tuxedo cat who had challenged Lovey more than once. Walter had been frantic at first - until Lovey had finally had enough; delivering a sharp peck to Jon’s ear that sent him scrambling away from the bird. None of the felines wanted anything to do with the little pigeon after that. 

As for Jordan and Joey, Walter found that the former was a shy American shorthair while the latter - a loud siamese with no concept of personal space. He saw little of Jordan except at mealtimes, but Joey was quite the opposite. The nimble creature had settled into Walter right away - draping around his neck while he binged episodes of drama, sling-shotting into his lap whenever he occupied a seat and winding about his legs whenever he moved in a way that made Walter ever fearful of accidentally kicking him when he slinked underfoot. 

Apart from all that though, Walter just wasn’t sure how to… vibe with them? Cats were strange creatures. On certain days, they tore through the house like little furry goblins, yowling as if Armageddon was upon them. On others, Walter would be convinced they had morphed into stuffed animals under patches of incoming sunshine. More often than not, the two kinds of days rolled into one. And it seemed that they sensed his inexperience as well for, other than Joey, everyone soon began to develop a hurricane-esque personality. Not that he could back out now; so Walter could only hope that this was just another case of  _ it’ll-get-worse-before-it-gets-better. _

But it seems as if nightmares only ever prolonged themselves. When his phone buzzed against the night table on a heinously early Monday morning, hours before Marcy was meant to be back, Walter rose as if electrocuted. His flail of the legs elicited an outraged hiss at the end of the bed which informed him of Joey’s displeasure. He felt himself mumble out an apology at the cream-colored streak that hopped from the mattress; zooming out the room with indignation.

Walter didn’t even realize he had picked up the phone and hit the button to answer the call; not until his thumb slipped and placed Marcy’s voice on speaker.

_ “Walter-! Sorry but...can you talk right now?” _

He looked down at the phone and faintly realized that the LEDs in the corner said  _ 2:18 AM.  _ Running a hand down his face Walter muttered something that he hoped was still English. 

_ “Listen-,” _ Marcy’s voice cracked over the line as he tried to sit up:  _ “-our flight got delayed. There’s a storm in southern Siberia that’s causing a downdraft. I don’t know when I’ll be back.” _

“Southern Siberia?” Walter groaned, failing to prop himself up with his elbows and so landing back on the pillows. He fought the urge to fall asleep, even as Marcy’s voice became permeated with the chatter of crowds in the background.

_ “Yes - Walter, I’m really sorry about all this. We would take the jet but they’re needed back at HQ. Budget cuts here aren't helping either. You’re alright, though - yeah?” _

Walter nodded and waited. It took a few seconds for him to realize his mistake when Marcy didn’t reply.

“Yeah, yeah… Sure,” he voiced instead, feeling something shift by his foot. Looking past the blinding display of his phone, he saw that Joey had returned. Except the cat was not here to settle down again, instead - Walter watched as the siamese uttered a low, guttural  _ meow _ before bending in half and retching a wet clump of cat hair on the cotton sheets. 

_ “You’re a lifesaver Walter! Alright, gotta go - call me if you need anything!” _

The line fell silent soon after.

* * *

Miel never liked being distanced from her work. 

There was always so much to see, to _do._ She always doubted the effectiveness of every given command. Even when she expected it to be done, it was never enough. Every operation has to be seen through; from narcotics to politics, casinos to stock markets, Miel did not shy from the public eye. She conducted her business in both boardrooms and basements alike; balancing on the tightrope between two worlds as overseer to both. Her empire was that of one built in the shadows so that she might tread in the light.

Not that it was easy work. When Wuxia had coordinated her day around repaying her smallest informants in uptown Yuen Long to negotiating over Kawasaki Heavy Industries from relinquishing all that’s left of Kimura’s shares, Miel was ready to call it a day. The Japanese had adjudicated fiercely against maximizing their production for her backup supply of C-1 Transport Aircrafts. And no- not T-4 fighter jets - she had wanted to snap. What did they take her for? Some money-grabbing one-shot terrorist? She needed STOL performance and that range of flight. Not missiles and whatever other nonsensical attack mechanisms “ _ capable of leveling a small city”  _ that producer was rattling on about.

No - Miel was a business woman. She had learned long ago that assassinations and murders are sustainable only to a certain degree. Sure, sometimes it was necessary. She did not shy from it due to a weak stomach. But it was hardly the only way to do things and death cannot solve every problem of the living. When it came down to it, though, stubbornness and stupidity were just as guilty as a purse pistol, Miel believed. But most of the time she’ll rather have the blessings of fifty airports and just three international private flight companies on her payroll than an army of hitmen. Miel needed to expand her domain, not coat it in blood.

Such were her contemplations as she swung her legs out of the limo’s door - being held open by Wuxia. Her heels impacted sharply against the asphalt of the Kai Tak runway, and she moved towards the eastern end of the dock where the familiar but ever-imposing metallic warehouse now stood. It was concrete monstrosity - with jagged edges and a ceiling that sloped like the roof of a barn. Industrial navy and silver paint coated it in streaks that attempted to lift away some of the ugly - though to no avail. Miel didn’t mind. Have a king’s barracks ever held semblance to their palace? 

She strode towards it, only barely aware of Wuxia and some of her men’s steps in tempo with hers. The light of the setting sun to the west threw her shadow in front of her and Miel was filled with a faint pleasure at the silhouette of her lithe form so outlined by a tailor three-piece. She glanced down to check that her lapel was straight, and smiled a little at the pinned sigil of the Nine-Tailed Fox glaring back. Upon reaching one of the entrances to the compound sealed in steel, Miel stopped and nodded at her entourage of five before waving a hand to Hanzi back in the limo. When a faint roar of the engine started and the men returned to the car. Wuxia opened the heavy door to the warehouse, and Miel entered. 

Her steps clicked through the roughened garage-like floor, workers dipping out of the way at her arrival. Not that there were a lot. She had picked quite the perfect time to visit. Closing hours ensured that the warehouse was largely empty. An assortment of planes stood sentry to her; bestial behemoths that followed each other with their noses pointed along the relatively empty walkway down the length of the building. Their wings spread and tails rose towards a hanging catwalk positioned around the perimeter of the compound. Tinted glass and sharp noses saluted her as she passed by - even as a few had their entrails out - strewing wires, bolts of disassembled turbines and engines across the floor in what could only be described as organized chaos. 

It didn’t take long for her to find Killian. From a semi-empty distance, the ceiling, step ladders, and overarching jets dwarfed him. That is until she drew closer, and he straightened from under the belly of a C-2, descending the platform with a lightness in his steps before coming to a stop before her. She gave a quick nod to him, which was reciprocated.

“Darling-,” She sighed - a small hiss of breath from between her teeth was released. “How goes the work?”

Killian shrugged and her shoulders tightened at the gesture. They both knew there was no kindness in her words and her greeting was as it was always - a thinly veiled threat.

“I’ll be done in…. two weeks time?”

Miel nodded. Her eyes flitted to Wuxia; who remained expressionless. Killian cleared his throat.

“Hydrogen cells. They’ll outfit your planes to consume hydrogen and release water, electricity, and heat,” he gestured to the mechanics strewn behind him. “The PEM’s constructed but you’ll need to start producing hydrogen as fuel via electrolysis - I need batteries.”

“Any preferences?” Miel hummed to herself lightly.

“Vented lead-acid,” he turned back to the plane. “Plante, of course - if you don’t want to see me again for fifteen years.”

Miel had reached into her jacket for a cigar. But upon touching her breast pocket, it was with great annoyance that she could not find the silver butane lighter. The realization that she had left it back in the glove compartment of the limo dawned on her. She looked to Wuxia. 

Wuxia wordlessly drew out a pack of matches for her and brought a flame to the end of the cigar. When lit, Miel gave a small huff of appreciation. Her eyes then shot back to Killian, who was staring at her in a way akin to anticipation. 

“But I quite enjoy our little get-togethers, dear,” Miel gave him a small smile as she took the first drag into her mouth. White smoke spewed from her mouth and curled around her face in a ghostly veil. It dissipated in the air with plumes of silvery tails that danced under the fluorescent lighting.

“I can imagine.” Killian’s eyes narrowed into a smile of his own. 

_ Why do we pretend? _ Miel could order Wuxia to shoot him right now. But then neither of them would get what they want. 

And that would just be bad business.

“Walk with me.” She said instead, offering her arm to Killian. Miel didn’t miss the hesitation as he linked the crook of his right elbow to her left forearm. 

“To where?” Killian questioned and Miel took another draw of her cigar.  _ Fear _ . Delicious.

“Must we all have a destination?” She replied. Without waiting for an answer, she set off at a brisk pace towards the back door of the warehouse; adjacent to the giant garage gateway meant for the aircrafts to roll out upon takeoff.

* * *

Killian easily caught the smell of salt from the faint sea breeze when they arrived on the pier, the sunset lifting away the murkiness of the waters in the bay. An emerald sheen ran as far as the eye could see under rays of orange. Some ferries dotted the horizon as the skyline of Hong Kong extended like the spine of a monstrous automaton behind them. 

He was a little numb to all of that, though - focused as he was on the iron hold of the woman’s arm linked to his, guiding him to the edge of the docks before stopping. 

He sighed internally when she relieved her grip on his arm to brace herself against the railing. As she tapped the stub of ash from her cigar into the waters below, Killian grew a little restless. He glanced back to the warehouse, but his gaze stopped short on the black-haired woman a few meters behind them.

He was sure it was the same woman that was with Miel on Devil’s Peak - though a pair of boxy, tinted sunglasses that obscured much of her face made it difficult to tell. A Glock hung at her hip, next to a walkie-talkie and a sheathed paring knife. She stood with her feet planted shoulder-width apart and arms behind her back, as still as the concrete deck beneath his feet.

“I don’t believe you’ve met Wuxia?” Miel questioned when tracing his gaze, another puff of smoke escaping her lips. 

“No.” He admitted. The woman in the combat boots did not move - save for the slight sway of her ponytail in the humid breeze; which was long enough to sweep around her elbows. The faint smell of cayenne and roasted tobacco from Miel’s cigar called for Killian - but not before he noticed a shift of wind carry the T-shirt away from the crook of Wuxia’s neck. 

It was the placement of the wound that caught his eye. There was an unnatural indentation forged under scar tissue directly above her right collarbone - no larger than the pad of one’s thumb. It was a shade lighter than the olive skin around it and flared outward as if enraged. He stared, transfixed for a moment before the fluttering fabric was once again folded over the scar by a breeze - and thus Killian lost sight on the bullet wound.

“She’s Hanzi’s twin,” Miel told him, the fragrance of the cigar rolling over him like a tantalizing fog. “And my shield. Nevermind. You’re probably hoping to discuss payment now. I did promise you vengeance, no?” 

Killian waited for her to go on. Miel pushed forth a ring of smoke and sighed. 

“Here’s what I think-” A wave of the hand holding the cigar trailed the fumes through the air: “You lack…a personal touch.”

“What?” Killian interjected - surprise flowing through him.

“The M9s-” Miel swiped one hand before her while the other lay folded across her chest. “-were efficient. Expensive, but efficient. But you trusted them a little too much, darling. They’re machines, after all. You cannot place your faith in just that.”

“But I can place my faith in you?” Killian smiled, looking to the bay. It really was beautiful. A wisp of smoke invaded his peripherals. He glanced back to Miel, who had just taken another drag.

“Have I failed you before?” She murmured, smoke pouring from her lips in sheets. 

Killian had nothing to say to that. It was true. She had not failed him in business - ever. He would complete his end of the bargain as she would - hers. Then he would run from her as a hare would from a fox; knowing Miel usually never left valuable assets which she unemployed live to be employed by others.

Not that she wouldn’t dare terminate an employment herself. So he held his tongue, waiting for the inevitable proposal.

“As I was saying- You failed because it wasn’t  _ personal _ .” She leaned in a little, and Killian could practically taste the ambrosial aroma of the Gurkha Black Dragon dancing on her breath; a rich tang that was both bitter and peppery - like flavored coal. 

Miel lowered her voice: “What you need are mercenaries. A private army. And not of drones.”

“The costs and transport of that would be tremendous-” Killian hoped his expression remained as impassive as he felt it was.

“No, no - don’t worry about that, darling.” She grinned: “You’re an investment. And as long as you keep supplying my business with that-” she gestured to the warehouse, “-You needn’t worry about me holding off at fifty million...”

He stared at her, a little bewildered, a little afraid.

“..But listen,” Her voice dipped again, and Killian fought to hear her over the howls of the waves below as dusk descended on the pier: “I can procure the firepower, but I’ll need you to give me a date, place, and plan. It’ll be a sweep, a strike team assembled on your command. For old time’s sake.”

Killian tried his very best to straighten, fighting the urge to rip the railing off the pier. Uncertainty filled him as the nicotine-induced fog swirled in the last rays of the dying sun. Miel’s toffee eyes had lost their warmth and had taken on a soullessness Killian did not want to acknowledge. In fact what he wanted, at the moment, was to toss himself into the sea. 

But another part of him - a  _ significant  _ part of him - felt almost peaceful, at home. The woman before him looked like an angel. And her words were sweet. Killian wondered if Miel intended for the mission to be an echo of Kyrgyzstan. Or perhaps not. Perhaps those H.T.U.V dogs do not deserve a grand demise nor the honor of a battle. Perhaps he would locate their individual files and hunt them down one by one in the night - and wake them just long enough to hear their pleas. He envisioned it just a little and thought that might suffice.

But what Miel is offering now is more than that. Killian had realized he had pulled away from his goal, and she was willing to give him free tickets for a train ride back. It was almost too good to be true. And that could’ve been the case - if this wasn’t Miel. Killian knew her - and that she did not make such promises lightly. 

“How will it be done?” He thus asked, leveling his tone. 

“That’s up to you,” Miel said simply. He shifted his footing and nodded; though could not say that he was pleased with her answer. In the silence that passed, Killian was suddenly aware of the bracelet’s bite to his ankle. He wondered if Sterling was listening… Not that he could have heard anything with the roar of the waters and wails of the wind. 

Miel left sometime later as Killian remained with his forearms braced against the rusted metal of the pier. His gaze on the horizon did not falter, even after the smell of cigar faded and the lamps to the airstrip burst to life. A gentle current of air caressed his skin and he felt his hologram flicker periodically to simulate the flow of his hair and changing lighting. It was quiet on the eastern front and Killian let his mind go for a minute just to enjoy the peace.

The waters whispered to him in the dark, but the airstrip was long enough to keep the hustle and bustle of the city at bay. Killian wasn’t sure how long he remained on the dock - only that when he checked the flip phone, it was almost seven. He should have been back by the hotel a quarter of an hour ago. 

The LED of the screen shone accusingly from the palm of his hand, so Killian flipped it shut and slipped it back into his pocket. If it buzzed against his thigh a few minutes later, it was no one’s business that he ignored it. Well, maybe Sterling’s - he thought, staring back out into the waters. He could see a small buoy wobble on the waves - its guiding light a small beacon resting upon unfathomable depths. 

He thought about Miel and her offer. It was risky, and if she truly did not know about his situation, there was no possible outcome of an attack against Sterling and his little groupies in which Killian could come out on top; especially now. He rubbed his right foot against the back of his ankle a little as he leaned on the rails; noting how the band of metal pressed into the leather of his shoe. He wondered if it was packed with enough voltage to stop his heart. Killian knew he would find out - if he bit back at the agency while still on their leash. 

But that wasn’t what particularly concerned him. There was a vice fastened to his obliques - cranking and turning, tightening his rib cage as if he was a wound-up toy that only exploded when released. Killian glared at the buoy in the distance; rising and falling to the currents. His left hand scraping at the weathered balustrade til flakes of brown gave way beneath his grip. The fitted, navy linen shirt provided him with little warmth as the night’s chill began to take hold. Killian bent himself forwards, bracing himself against the wind as the fabric pulled taut along his back; brushing against his shoulders in an almost tender caress.

Sterling’s soft smile came to mind, unbidden, at the sensation of linen against his skin. Killian mentally flinched a little. The recollection that this shirt came from the agent’s wallet clouded his mind. He hadn’t asked why. It wasn’t as if Sterling could’ve given him a satisfactory answer, anyway. Either way, Killian could not escape from that vice compressing his chest as his ears reddened. 

_ Sterling. _

He searched for that spark of anger that usually came with the agent’s name, and was deeply disturbed when he found little. He reached up with his right hand to brush against the silicon plating on his chin and kept searching.

There was no one else but Lance Sterling who did this to him (his fingers traveled across an artificial cheekbone). No amount of pleasantries, home cooking or odd platitudes can account for what the destruction he had caused. The Beckett boy be damned, Killian blamed that lapse of judgment on the effects of solitary. He owed them nothing and Sterling would go the way he should have a long time ago; as his men had.

And Killian would make it  _ hurt _ .

* * *

Lance was in nothing short of a panic when he found him near the end of the Kai Tak runway a long while after eight.

He had blamed the afternoon traffic when Killian didn’t make it back on time - and calmed himself by tracking the other man’s vitals. He had called him numerous times on fifteen-minute intervals, and of course, they went to voicemail. 

When half an hour inched by after ordering a taxi for his pick-up, Lance was informed by the driver that he had not received him at all. Dread rising in him, he offered the exasperated man double his salary if he could return to the hotel and get him to the runway within the hour. 

The driver did not disappoint - weaving through the bustling streets of Hong Kong eerily similar to the training Lance had received for vehicular maneuvers against hostile forces as a new agent all those years prior. Except this man had no subtlety - and on multiple occasions, Lance was sure that they were to get t-boned and that would be the end of that. Death by capitalism - was such his fate?

But apparently not - for the driver managed to skid onto the Kai Tak runway in one piece; a length of burned rubber laid in his wake. Lance could only dump a dozen bills into his hand before swinging the door open and dry-retching onto a nearby patch of grass. Before he had even caught his breath, the driver had sped off - leaving Lance with a personal oath to never again use money as a motivator with Hong Kong locals - especially in transport.

He silently praised the fact that he hadn’t found the time nor patience to eat as he bolted across the runway towards the warehouse. Caution kept him to the shadows as Lance rounded the giant building of metal and concrete. Its windows appeared locked by blast shields from the inside and the doors, he tested, were bolted shut. Lance considered cutting them open when he realized that it’s very unlikely there was anyone inside at this hour anyone - much less Killian.

So instead, Lance drew up the screen displaying Killian’s tracker from a projector on his wrist. His breath steadied when he saw the small blue dot pulsed on the not far from his own - not far at all…

And so Lance rounded the back of the warehouse, drawing closer to the dot. Killian was ever stationary, with no intention of escape, it seemed. He kept his footsteps light, peering behind a darkened corner before stepping out beneath an overhead lamp.

Killian was standing near the edge of the pier, arms braced against the thick poles of rotting metal. His head was raised to a point in the distance, and his one leg was folded behind another in quite a suave way - which only seemed to fan the flames to Lance’s anger. 

He stomped towards him, and Killian whirled at the sound of footsteps; eyes widening at landing on Lance.

“What the hell, man?!” He called after him, closing the distance between them in a few strides. The man in question had the audacity to look  _ surprised _ : “Kills - I called you, like, five times. You-what are you still doing here?”

Killian stared at him for a moment before shaking his head a little. His voice was unbelievably soft when he spoke: “Just wanted some fresh air, ‘ts all .”

Lance felt his glare melt, and his anger fade to worry.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Killian sneered back, all too quickly - the indulgence in his voice wilting. He stepped around Lance and made it a couple of meters down the airstrip before tossing back a: “Can we go?”

Lance nodded, catching up to him. He tried a small smile to ward off a certain uneasiness settling into the pit of his stomach: “You hungry?”

Killian bumped his shoulder lightly against Lance’s in affirmation.

Lance sighed.

It was late, and knowing that the hotel restaurant was likely closed, they ordered a taxi to the western side of Kowloon, a couple of blocks from the hotel. Their transport dropped them off in the poorer quarters that were always open; vigil and welcoming from dawn to dusk. Lance had taken a liking to an eatery called  _ The Bayou Tree _ ; and particularly their outdoor seating. 

The small restaurant was cozy but not cramped; with a nice overhang and a nicer staff who reminded Lance of long-lost friends. Planters hung from counters while wooden tables and straw seats kept customers cool even on hot humid days. Windows that would have let in natural light within the restaurant were now framed by light-up strips of LEDs that cast a homely glow over booths. An hour here, with a cup of traditional milk tea in hand, was both refreshing and like being wrapped in a comforting hug.

Lance took his usual seat under the awning and occupied the silence by explaining the state of the restaurant and their specialties. Killian, who had slid into a seat opposite him, glanced up from the menu every so often with a look that was either curiosity or annoyance. Lance fell silent a little later anyway, just in case it was the latter.

They placed their orders and fell into another lapse of quietude. Killian seemed to be looking anywhere else but him now - eyes fixed on the streets around them. After a moment, Lance decided to clear his throat.

“Walter called today.”

Killian’s eyes jumped to his.

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” Lance ran a hand along his neck, propping his shoulders straighter on the back of the hemp-woven chair: “He’s been busy cat-sitting for Marcy… But he asked about you.”

“Oh.” A light frown furrowed those knife-like brows.

“Just the usual - how you’re doing and such…” Lance shrugged, taking a sip of tea set out.

“Why does he care?” Killian muttered - so low that Lance almost missed it: “In fact, why do any of you care?”

Lance stilled. He decided that he didn’t have an answer for that which wouldn’t escalate the conversation into an argument. Thankfully he didn’t have to make an unnatural change of subject - as their meals shortly arrived.

* * *

Killian had little to say to him during their late-night dinner. Lance would periodically ask him if he thought it was good. 

It was better than good. It was delicious. 

Plates of steamed pork ribs resting on beds of well-seasoned shanghai lettuce and xiao long bao that have drunk in the rich scent of the bamboo baskets they were cooked in rested on his tongue. A warm milk tea settled in his stomach like a rich nectar; bringing back faint memories of simpler times. It was almost enough for Killian to forgive Sterling’s choice of a restaurant; which was much too romantic for his tastes. 

In fact, if he knew it was going to be like this, he would have wished to be taken to a more crowded region of downtown Hong Kong - Miel’s informants be damned. Nights were safer in any case - and oh what Killian would give now to be surrounded by elderly smokers that never slept and college students tossing back bottle after bottle of cheap beer; Anything to distract himself from the man across from him. 

But no. He’s here - forced to glare at Sterling’s warm features, illuminated by an  _ actual _ candle in a mason jar, legs crossed over one another nonchalantly. Killian thought the agent had no business looking so relaxed near him. It just wasn’t fair - when his own nerves were as high-strung as they were. He suddenly had an urge to shatter the teacup he held in his left hand, just to wipe the unwinded apathy from Lance’s face. 

“What?” Sterling piped up after the plates were emptied. Killian hadn’t noticed that he’d been staring at him, but the damage was done.

“Nothing.” He shrugged.

“It didn’t look like nothing,” Lance retorted. 

“What do you mean?”  _ Is he finally going to snap at me? _ Killian thought, before being a little taken aback with his own concern.  _ Since when did I care how Sterling felt? _

“You were glaring at me like I smacked you,” Lance chuckled sans malice, and Killian’s concern was washed away by a landslide of irrational anger. 

“You’ve done worse, remember?” he blurted out, setting down the ceramic teacup a little rougher than necessary. It elicited a dull  _ thump  _ on the oak table, and Killian noticed with little pleasure at the way he drew Sterling’s eye to the prosthetic. 

A small sigh escaped him, but he did not fire back. He did not make his opinion known or even chuck an irked glance his way. For that, Killian suddenly felt stiflingly uncomfortable, as if he’d just lengthened his list of grievances to the world. 

That suffocating sensation did little to lift from him when the waiter came by and plopped the bill down on the table. Sterling scooped it up and paid and before Killian could say another word, then jumped up and headed towards the curb.

The cab ride back was one filled with the most awkward silence. Sterling didn’t bother riding in the back with him for some reason, so Killian crossed his arms and sulked from behind the driver’s seat. He didn’t register when they arrived at the hotel, only the closing and shutting of the taxi’s door as Lance got out. 

Killian followed behind him, trying not to shuffle his feet as they crossed the foyer and made their way into the elevator. He resorted to pressing a shoulder against the mirrors on the farthest wall from Lance when the broad doors closed. Sterling stood normally as if nothing was amiss. It grated against his nerves and he straightened, left hand curling and uncurling behind his back soundlessly.

“Are you mad at me?” Killian felt the words leave his mouth before he could rethink them when they were halfway through the ride. He did not dare look to the agent - did not dare show how much he cared about his response. The elevator continued to ascend steadily towards the penthouse. 

Lance made a little sound of surprise:

“What-?” 

He fell silent and hoped that Lance uttered the word through shock. Killian was  _ not _ about to ask him again. 

“No…? I’m not… Of course I’m not mad at you. Why?” Sterling’s brow quirked up in suspicion: “What did you do?”

Killian whirled to him: “I-nothing. I'm just… Checking.”

The elevator dinged up a couple more floors before coming to a stop. It was now nearing ten, Killian noticed, from a digital clock on the keypad just as the doors open onto that familiar, carpeted hallway. 

“You’ll know if I’m ever mad at you,” Lance scoffed as they stepped out: “Won’t be very difficult to tell, trust me.” He reached for the door key upon approaching their rooms, unlocking both doors.

“Wait-” Killian called before Sterling could slip inside. Lance looked to him, and Killian felt himself frozen under such perceptive, hickory-brown eyes: “You’re not going to ask me why I was late today?”

Sterling shifted his footing to lean against the doorway, a frown gracing his lips. Killian watched him weigh his options. The tension in the hallway, he thought, was palpable.

“Nah.” Sterling finally judged, shoulders lifting and falling with a small shrug as he stifled a yawn. “I know Marcy’s all over my case ‘bout that stuff but it’s late. We can talk about it tomorrow if you’d like.”

Killian nodded and that seemed to satisfy Lance, who wasted no time slipping into the room. The hinges fell closed with a short resounding echo of metal through the passageway, and Killian was alone once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I'm so sorry Walter wasn't in the past two chapters. Hopefully, this makes up a little for our much-needed noodle boi content.
> 
> \- Miel holds a special spot in Killian's boulder of a heart - just a petit black worm-like, tar-pigmented band around his aorta. Is it cancerous? Or just unpleasant? We shall find out. 
> 
> \- Killian knows one emotion and that is Hatred of Sterling so this is just a slow erosion and relearning of Human Interaction for him lmao
> 
> \- Lance doesn't really know how to handle Killian's shenanigans so he's just dealing with him as one deals with a really picky plant; giving him sunlight, food, water, and hoping it won't keel over and die. Or explode. Whatever plants do. 
> 
> Chapter 10??? Will be here?? Soon???


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Killian Loses His Last Brain Cell

Marcy Kappel made two decisions that she hoped that she would not come to regret. 

The  Hong Kong International Airport is built on the island of Chek Lap Kok.  And like all airports Marcy had been to, it held an obsession with celestially curved ceilings of partially obscured glass. White floors and walls dominated sections of carpet. They waited near the terminals in padded metal chairs much more suited for spatial efficiency than comfort. To make it even worse, the linoleum of the  floor amplified every sound - from footsteps to the lightest conversation; so making sleep impossible without the aid of earplugs. 

Not that Marcy could have ever slept in this space; nor Eyes for that matter. Airports are breeding grounds of information for agents and quite often the arena for target pursuit. Internal affairs didn’t lend her much work in the fields nowadays, and thus, her demand for excitement was garnered. So while Ears bent himself in impossible ways on nearby seats to catch a wink of sleep, they surveyed the delayed flights periodically; though the estimated wait time only seemed to increase. 

So the hours dragged on; with dawn falling to dusk. The HKG was open 24/7 and there was a hotel a fifteen-minute drive from the landing. Thus, Marcy made the first decision. After dinner at one, over-priced airport eatery, it took only a call to book a room and a few more to call a taxi. 

The minutes ticked by a little quicker after that. It was only a matter of waiting now, she thought - frustration making way for exhaustion. Not that Eyes or Ears could tell. Marcy prided herself as being one of those people who looked the opposite of tired when truly, and utterly tired. Between her unstoppable pacing amongst the planters of the airport and periodic running of a hand through loose hair, Marcy let herself indulge in stress at a situation she could not control. 

Eyes and Ears did not share in her spirit, though. After moving to the front of the airport to wait for the taxi, they would interchange between looking down at their phones and leaning heavily on the couches while staring blankly around them. Marcy tried to keep her pacing light for them and their naps. With her hands shoved deep into jean pockets (she did not bother wearing agency gear on travels if the agency couldn’t garner enough funding to support a return trip by jet), Marcy would occasionally survey her surroundings.

Their chosen spot was in a little to the left of the great hall - with a good vantage point over the line of glass doors that usually facilitated a flurry of travelers. Windows that often let in an absurd amount of natural light during the day now slanted ominously into the ceilings above - the indoor lighting throwing a faint reflection of the interior against the darkened panes. Most of the other passengers affected by the storm had already left, and only the most persistent remained for a miraculous turn-around of weather. Unsure yet hopeful elderly couples and middle-aged businessmen spread themselves throughout the largely empty hall. It was purely habit that made Marcy keep an eye on them as she continued to pace.

The taxi arrived around nine-thirty, not that Marcy really kept track of the time. They hauled their carry-ons forth, trudging across the hall and passing under the steel canopy of the airport outside to meet the cab parked in the night. It stood with its headlights projecting a welcoming orange directly across a roundabout planted with vegetation. A man beckoned to them from behind the wheel. 

Eyes and Ears had entered the vehicle when Marcy was still fitting their luggage into the back of the taxi. There wasn’t a lot, really. Only a duffel bag for each of them, plus another satchel for their equipment. Most of H.T.U.V’s gear and gadgets are categorized into local and international travel; with that of international being smaller, more compact, and made relatively untraceable by airport security and the prying hand. Ivory guns that fly under metal detectors and Teflon-based belts that convert into polycarbonate grappling hooks make it easy for agents to operate under the radar of law enforcement.

When the last of the bags were secured, Marcy slammed the trunk shut and brushed her hands against her pants. A layer of dust sifted onto the jeans, and she sighed - remembering the over-crowded streets of Hong Kong and plumes of soot and regional smog kicked up by motor vehicles and coal-burning power plants. 

_ Inhale. _

The air on the HKG was alright, though. Even if Chek Lap Kok is an artificial island, it’s still the third-largest artificial island in the world - and far enough into the sea that those entering Hong Kong weren’t greeted by smokestacks coughing into the sky. Out of sight, out of mind seemed to be the mentality here.

_ Exhale. _

She looked around one last time before getting into the taxi; taking in the sloping roofs that shone a dull silver in the moonlight and the flutter of bushes that lined the front of the airport - contained by pots with silhouettes that were much too unnatural in the dark. She shook her head and turned back to the door. Her eyes were skimming across the top of the cab when her hand froze; inches away from the passenger door. 

A  Citroën DS flanked by a series of shapeless SUVs had made their way onto the back of the roundabout and stopped, ten meters or so behind them. Marcy was surprised that she had not noticed until now. They had been eerily quiet; like a funeral procession bleeding into the shadows. Some men had gotten out - clad in grey suits with indiscernible figures - some much too bulky to be just of clothing. Marcy looked past them, and when her eyes found the woman in the white dress climb out from the DS, she made her second decision.

“Get them to The Ritz-Carlton,” she muttered to the driver, handing him a wad of bills. The man nodded at her and the engine hummed to life. Marcy struggled against the impulse to check and see if HuMie Liang took notice as the driver counted the cash. 

“Where’re you going?” Ears piped up from the back, still half-asleep. Eyes lifted her head from the window, a frown curling her lips. 

Marcy wasn’t sure what she could truthfully provide that wouldn’t result in a debate: “Don’t worry. There’s something I need to check on. I’ll be back soon.”

The cab's departed a minute later - with only the crunch of tire on asphalt lingered in the air. And so Marcy turned back to the airport - eyes boring into the back of the procession. With her feet carrying her to the darkness shed by the structures, she kept her movements light in pursuit. 

* * *

If there was one thing that Miel understood, it was treachery.

That, and style. She crossed the polished granite of the HKG, her jaw set tight and arms folded behind her back. A few tired eyes swiveled to her, but she paid them no heed. Five men were enough for the job. Five men and Hanzi. A scoping of the perimeter by Wuxia had confirmed her luck. She would have no wandering tourists interfere with business today - not when there was money to be made and debts to be collected.

Sebastian Abruzzo was waiting for her at the commercial terminal, where private aircrafts made their landing. He was a rugged but handsome man, impossible to read; with a grizzled beard and bushy eyebrows that spoke of Arab-Sicilian heritage. The few strands of hair that did escape the flat cap curled over an angular forehead in an almost frustrating nonchalance. With shoulders bent under the weight of a wool overcoat (much too hot for the weather), the man looked straight out of an old mobster film.

And he might as well be, Miel thought. Abruzzo was here to make a payment. Three months ago, Miel had given him and his family passage into America from the favelas of Brazil. One call later and he had found an envelope in his mailbox with four plane tickets and a check that had sustained their rent for as long as his do-good sister - Elia - could make ends meet. 

Miel did not care about Sebastian as much as his ties to Elia; and also understood that a good investment increased in value over time, and value depends on the demands of people. Thus Miel made it her business to know their fears, their wants, their needs - to fulfill them. Which is how she came to learn that Elia - who had the same angular forehead and curly hair as her brother; made a relatively good living as a level nine secretary for the agency. Her eyes had fallen with greed on her division; in charge of procuring weaponry necessary for the infiltration of information. 

Abruzzo was waving at her as she strode over, and Miel wondered how someone could be simultaneously so intelligent yet so stupid. When told to procure a thumb drive for her through Elia’s employment, Abruzzo had sighed with relief - the job was simple. No bloodshed, _nada._ Then he had questioned; what agency? 

As if there was more than one - she had scoffed. Abruzzo was now a meter away. Miel stopped, a final click of her heels rested in the air between them.

“Here.” He reached into his overcoat and retrieved a small, tan parcel. The man was never one for pleasantries. That was fine - neither was Miel. 

“Lovely.” She commented, tearing open the paper and plastic with a nail and peering into the pocket. A small metal stick the size of chewing gum stared back at her.

“It is done, yes?” Abruzzo’s eyes flicked between herself and Hanzi anxiously - and Miel knew, without looking, that her legionnaire’s hand had landed on his holster. 

She made an ambiguous  _ hum  _ of a sound, rolling the thumb drive across her palm. It was a navy blue stick of metal - heavier than it looked. 

“It’s done.” She nodded and did not mention that Abruzzo was going to regret this. He was smart enough to keep himself from asking what the thumb drive was for - but not smart enough to understand anything beyond that. _No_ , she thought - Abruzzo had never been smart enough. And the world is not kind to those that are not smart enough.

Scanning the man’s face, Miel wondered with a half-smile how it would go - how he would hear of his sister’s death at the hands of men that tread the night as mice tread the gutters. How that rugged face would crumple and how that strong-set jaw would fall open to curse the Hu name when the agency collapses and takes his life with it. And how he would realize that this was all thanks to one little thumb drive, given so willingly by him to a lady in white.

“Goodnight, Madame,” Abruzzo bid her farewell and left as he came - sure-footed and stone-faced. His military training setting his shoulders upright, taught as a bridge cable, and Miel was suddenly reminded of Killian. Except Abruzzo wasn’t quite so poised nor had half the brains as that Aussie bastard. As he faded into the dark, Miel wondered who would be the one to splatter said brains on a wall with a bullet. Procuration of services to hostile forces, compliance in terrorism, and treason - probably enough to garner capital punishment in his country. Miel watched as Abruzzo faded into the night - melting into the shadows of the airport like a phantom, long, heavy overcoat swaying to his steps. The fact that this was the last time she would see him alive fell unspoken.

Her hand merely tightened around the thumb drive as they were making their way back to the vehicles, the heat in the Hong Kong air sufficiently stifling. 

It was Hanzi’s chuckle that interrupted her thoughts: “He called you  _ madame, _ ” 

“Glad to know you have ears.” Miel did not fancy seeing that familiar grin so she kept her steps clicking through the airport, glaring at the other passengers instead. 

“ _ Madame,”  _ Hanzi repeated. He mimicked the Brazilian accent with great seriousness: “ _ Madame _ Hu; ugh - no. That’s weird.”

Miel fought a shudder - annoyance creeping up her spine.  _ Madame.  _ She wasn’t so old. She wasn’t so young. But she was vain - and none of that changed how the term was usually used for women into their forties. And Miel was hardly that. Sure, she had a few scars here and there - scrapes and cuts concealed under fur and leather that ran as marks of the past; emphasis on _concealed_. When crow’s feet crept into her eyes with each smile, Miel smiled less. When silver strands made their way into her hair, she dyed it all white. And when her voice grew huskier, rougher - like the rolling avalanches or incoming storm - with age, she kept it to commands. 

But  _ madame.  _ Hanzi chuckled to himself as they passed through the automatic glass doors. Miel ignored him. She owed her life to the twins. It was only fitting they joked about it now and then. There was still a fair bit of business to be conducted, though. She whirled to Hanzi before dipping into the car.

“Get McFord to meet you tomorrow with this.” She passed the parcel to him: “I’ve set a deadline. He will understand.”

When Hanzi nodded, Miel slid into the back of the vehicle, her nails tapping against the leather that lacked luster. Her face was turned to the gentle breeze of the wind that crossed over the island in a blanket that brought the taste of the sea. The mountains of Kowloon stretched out in greeting to her from miles away.

An hour later, she would be home.

* * *

Killian’s hands hovered over the soon-to-be detonator. 

The soldering iron dipped down, then up - releasing a thin trail of smoke. His right eye was covered with a bandana so binocular vision did not damper the cybernetics of his left. He remained hunched over the workbench, amidst the bustling couriers, mechanics, and repairmen making brake relining and disc replacements. They took no interest in his work - even if Miel told him that they would be on-call for any manual labor he may require or even to provide materials beyond what has been provided. 

Killian acknowledged her generosity. The Chinese were people of great etiquette and Miel was never one to disappoint. Nevertheless, caution kept his head down and his workbench strewn with bolts and sprinkled with schematics. His primary intention was to keep this little secondary project indifferentiable from that of the engine. The cell was done, but Killian was not.

Muscle memory took over when it came to the blasting cap. Screwing it on and fusing it to the wires and AA battery, Killian once again admired the simplicity of the electronic detonator. It was beautiful, sophisticated - 50V EEPROM delay module and all. He did not see a fiery death in the tools he used; not in the mustard-colored tetryl or webs of wires that wove the circuitry to life. It was all just a good piece of craftsmanship for him - from the programming to assimilation. 

He stopped, made a few sketches and notes here and there on the construction, pen gliding over the paper seamlessly. The sunlight from the windows did nothing but inform him of captivity. He looked at the clock and realized it had been three hours past noon - and an uncomfortable emptiness had long begun to pull at his stomach. 

So he brushed the papers into his briefcase along with parts of the detonator. He still had a few days till the weekend; in which Miel was accustomed to make her visits. By then, he would have programmed the codes to offset the trigger mechanism. Attached to the fuel tank under the guise of pressure stabilizer, a single spark would ignite the hydrogen in an explosion that would leave no survivors. If done, Killian would only need to be within a hundred and fifteen miles from any equipped aircraft - and that aircraft to be the same distance from the following - initiating a chain reaction. Like fire pits manned by sentries of circuit boards and switches, the result would be total desecration. 

It would only serve as a precaution, of course. To launch an attack internationally on a global agency proficient in espionage is a hefty price to pay for hydrogen cells. Killian did not believe any amount of fuel tech could possibly even the score for what Miel offered. And from past experiences with her - if anything was too good to be true, it probably was. There would be a double-cross. There was always a double-cross.

Eventually, his hunger called for nourishment, and Killian stood - briefcase in hand and left the warehouse for takeout. The streets were full of spectators and Killian heavily disliked the gazes of onlookers as he passed. It was too hot to wear a coat so hiding his hand in the breast pocket was an impossibility. The idea of sticking his hand in his pant pockets seemed absurd to him - as do gloves. So Killian kept his movement quick and his arm tucked behind his back for good measure. 

He sidestepped groups of people and ignored those that wore wide-eyed stares, hushed voices sometimes lingering as he passed. They were afraid and did not hide it. It was expected. But Killian still felt his throat close; a spiteful bitterness rushing to his head. A gawking middle-aged woman with a salmon sweater leading her grandson by the shoulder, a construction worker rubbing his own arm with a face of concern and teenagers growing silent as he passed all grated his nerves. 

More than ever, they made him feel stalked and lost - and a defensive rage overtook his discomfort. So when a small light tap landed on his left shoulder, Killian seized the hand and whirled around. He heard the yelp of agony before he locked the other man’s shoulder in metal and twisted his arm towards him. Killian readied to dislocate the joint in one harsh pull when the man began to bat at him--

“ _ Killian-!  _ Jesus Christ, would you---  _ owww--- _ let go!”

He dropped his arm and the other man scrambled back, clasping his shoulder as if it was made of glass. Blinking in the sunlight, Killian watched as Hanzi glared up at him in a fit of dull anger.

“Sorry,” Killian huffed out without much thought.

Hanzi blinked at him, his faux cut was mussed. With a white silk jacket rolled up to the sleeves - Hanzi looked much too much like a college kid; even as brown eyes bored into him and thin lips contorted into confusion.

“What?”

He stilled before realizing that he didn’t apologize. He had never apologized. Ever. That was something Sterling did. Killian did  _ not _ apologize.

Except, of course, he had. And Hanzi was now staring at him as if his eyes had fallen from their sockets. 

“What do you want?” Killian rushed out before he could be berated by questions. Looking around, he projected his voice lower: “You following me now? Where’s Miel?”

Hanzi raised his arms, sharp face paling in the afternoon sun: “Woah - no, man. I came to give you this-”

He reached into his pocket and withdrew what looked to be a stick of metal, with a dark blue cap. He offered it with his palm-up, standing back at arm’s length as if afraid to be in his vicinity. Killian took it from him. It was a USB, a standard model - 2.0 - fitted for the laptops.

“Miel’s in Beijing. She’ll be back on the agreed date for a review of your work,” Killian heard Hanzi say as he turned the thumb drive around,

Hanzi cleared his throat, and he looked up. The man was nodding at the thumb drive in his hand. 

“In the meantime, She wants me to tell you that this-” he nodded to the thumb drive in his hand, “-wasn’t easy to get a hold of. Cost her quite a...ah, how did she put it?  _ A lucrative amount. _ ”

Killian glanced back at the USB - it held no markings, but there was something refined about the make, something familiar about the shape. 

“Where did she get this?”

Hanzi shrugged with impatience: “Hell if I knew, man. Some agency?”

Killian stilled and he understood. He had seen this thumb drive before; had used many like it. Except, they used to print them in a bright, accusing apricot orange, and it had been larger. Killian rolled it over his palm in the way that he had done before - when he was still whole. The thumb drive contained a one-time use direct action boot sector virus that copies the targeted files on any device and renders them onto the drive without a trace. Considered a delicacy on the black market, it’s known as a sifter - in that it filters through the hard drive in search of what it was programmed to search for. 

Killian would bet his other arm on the fact that this one targeted blueprints, time tables, agency files, and identity databases. And all it took would be linking the hardware to a laptop with enough clearance and the right connections. 

“Three days,” Hanzi was saying as he strode away, a light bounce ever in his steps: “Then she’ll be back to collect.”

When the hitman melted back into the crowd, Killian forced himself to return to the airstrip. One step after the other - the bracelet had begun to bite into his ankle again with a newfound vengeance. Killian tried to ignore it but found himself halting at the gates to Kai Tak. 

Killian glanced down at his wrist. The watch wrapped around it now read half-past four. Lance had not allowed him anything other than the most primitive cell phone that lacked even the telling of time. When he pointed that out, Killian was surprised to return to the hotel one day with a small but ornate box sitting on his bed; a watch atop a plush cushion within. When Lance saw him wearing it the next day, he made sure to add that Killian’s timepiece was made of sterling silver. Killian didn’t doubt it by his reaction when he threatened to flush it down the toilet. He didn’t thank him. The pun was expensive, but a pun nonetheless.

He only realized that he’d been standing on the side of the road, running a finger absent-mindedly over the silver band when the double-decker streetcar rumbled past. Its height gave him a brief recess from the scorching afternoon sun. Killian looked back to the runway. The warehouse would be closed in an hour or so, but he did not feel like going back. It was too hot, and he was too tired. What he needed now was an icy shower, an equally icy coffee, and the comfort of a hotel. 

So Killian reached into his suitcase and withdrew the phone. Lance picked up on the second ring.

_ “Kills?” _ His voice was drowsy and Killian wondered if Sterling had been napping.

“Could you call a cab over?” he muttered into the phone. There was a pause - before a sharp intake of breath filled the line.

_ “You alright?” _ There was a shuffle of papers and fabric on the other end:  _ “You need me to-” _

“I’m fine.” he interrupted. Sterling really was insufferable: “We’re done for the day. Just get me back, would you?”

When he heard a  _ “sure _ ” grunted out, Killian flipped the phone shut and slipped it back into the case. He shifted on his feet and settled down on the bench before the gates. The thumb drive was still clutched in his hand.

He thought about Sterling. From time to time, Killian still wondered why he bothered with all of this… recon work. It was costly and time-consuming. He wanted to know about Miel - send another agent in; one that’s less known and with less hatred towards those that they’re working for. This was likely all the doing of that Beckett kid. He expected solitary, perhaps even capital punishment. He knew very well that people have been executed for less. This form of discipline, though, was unusual. 

Because that's all this was, right? Discipline? Killian uncapped the thumb drive and stared at the stick of silver. What was even more unusual was Sterling’s... Killian didn’t want to think of it as  _ kindness -  _ but there really was no other word for it. He has no need to provide Killian with what he does; as there was nothing he could want from him that he would have trouble getting. Physically, he was locked - financially, he was barred, and as for assets - they had dragged him nearly ten thousand miles away from his nearest weapons bunker. He had either cut all ties or given in most of his associates on the path to conquest. 

But not all; he still had Miel. Killian may not understand Sterling’s kindness, but he understood vengeance. Perhaps, if kindness has the potential to be used for coercion; it would serve Killian as well. If Sterling wanted nothing else from him and was still offering him all the luxuries of life, perhaps he could utilize that to his advantage - push the boundaries a little. He didn't need much, for now.  Just a laptop. 

Killian pocketed the thumb drive in the back of his dress pants and stood as a cab rolled around the corner. Perhaps he could get an adapter and connect to the agent's phone. That could work as well.

He numbly noted that his hunger had returned.

* * *

It was that sort of day - hot, humid; despite the ventilation of the hotel. The sun had cooked the streets bone-dry. The stillness of the air invited the bite of flying insects - from flies to mosquitoes - of which Lance found roaming the streets when he attempted to venture out for a meal. Feeling the heat bear down like a ball and chain around his ankle after barely walking half a block, he gave up and turned back to the hotel to order takeout. 

By then, he had pretty much given up trying to make anything productive out of the day. Splashing cold water on his face had ceased to make a difference and updating reports and mission status had become a stifling chore. Lance had been groggily staring at his laptop for hours when Killian’s call came.

There was something weirdly invigorating about that voice, and Lance sat up a little. It seemed that he wasn’t the only victim to Hong Kong’s summer - for Killian had decided to return. However, the heat had sizzled away his nerves, and he was filled with no small irritation at the briskness in being interrupted. So just to spite the man, Lance hopped into the cab and had it barrel toward the Kai Tak airport, watching passively as the hotel grew smaller in the side mirrors by the passenger seat.

Killian was waiting for him on the side of the road, briefcase in hand. He slipped into the seat behind the driver, silently - before glancing up at Lance. At the way he paused, Lance decided that this was it. One snarky remark,  _ one _ rude jibe or malicious comment on why Lance was here, and Killian could find his own ride. 

“Why don’t you come sit back here?” 

Lance whirled around. Killian had leaned back, his left hand in his lap while his right lightly patted the seat behind Lance before stretching along the backing. He was not scowling at him; not glaring at him - just watching him with an all too unassuming gaze; eyes wide as searchlights.

_ “What?”  _ Lance blinked. 

Said eyes rolled to the ceiling before jumping to him pointedly. Tiredly. 

“C’mon.” Killian tipped his head toward the seat, and Lance heard a  _ honk _ from behind them. They were occupying one of the two lanes and afternoon traffic in Hong Kong was unforgiving. Killian was now looking at him, a little impatient, and Lance had a feeling they would not move until he moved.

So he did - climbing out and into the backseat. The cab purred to life under the ignition, and Lance had just enough time to click in his seat belt before lurching as the driver rolled back on track.

Lance glanced over at Killian, who had not stopped staring at him with eyes much larger than he remembered. He searched for signs of drug use or intoxication on his face and found none. He was just looking at him; like Lance had just become the most interesting person in the world. 

After a moment, Killian swung his left hand to rest on the seat as he crossed his legs. Lance noticed that he was wearing no seat belt of his own. 

“How are you?” 

And Killian smiled. At  _ him. _

Lance had almost missed it through his shock. It was a sweet but brief little thing - dashing across his face like the tail of a comet and fading twice as quickly. If not for the blush to his cheeks and flush to his ears, Lance would have mistaken it to be nothing more than a swift trick of the eye.

But it was not. Lance had seen it.- and most importantly - the smile was genuine. In that second, the sharpness in Killian’s eyes had washed away like thick, tar-colored oil sliding from the clear water of a lagoon. A liveliness dipped into his complexion as his bashfulness betrayed him. 

Lance had seen Killian smile. 

“What?” He was leaning back now, eyeing Lance with a calculated concern; like a raccoon planning his escape from animal control. 

Lance had seen Killian smile  _ at him. _

“Nothing,” Lance shrugged, then cleared his throat when his voice cracked the slightest bit: “I’m fine.”

The smile turned into a smirk, and Killian nodded the slightest bit. He glanced out the window:

“I want to show you something.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> G'day mates - chapter 11 is 3/4 done cuz I initially planned it to be all chapter 10 in one go--- But shit's pivoted and now y'all can expect this fic to be way longer than 12 chapters, R.I.P.....


	11. Chapter 11

Two days were all it took. 

Killian had begun to wake early in the morning, dragging Lance out for breakfast, get a couple of hours down at work before leaving in the mid-afternoon for Sterling again. Then Killian would tow him through Hong Kong - from the mangrove boardwalk suspended over miles of wetland and framed by emerald vegetation to the deep, sheltered waters of Victoria Harbour. When taxis proved too cumbersome for travel through the congested traffic of the city’s downtown regions, Killian suggested buses and streetcars and was surprised when Sterling complied.

In fact, apart from a few questions on where and when - Lance didn’t seem at all bothered about these little adventures. In fact, the agent was a lot more interested in him - which he supposed was just as well. Sterling would often ask Killian if he’s been to where he’s taking him or wonder about his experience with a certain place. Killian answered well enough and was quite shocked when he found Sterling’s questions less annoying than anticipated. 

It was almost dusk when they arrived at the HKMoA on the second day. For their final stop, Killian had insisted on visiting the museum’s exhibitions. Classical watercolor misplaced during WWII, painted ceramics recovered by the Han Dynasty, and vivid tapestries through the ages adorned the halls. They walked through it languidly, and as Killian couldn’t muster genuine enthusiasm at having seen all these countless times - he resorted to pointing out the value of various pieces. Apparently, Sterling found this rather amusing.

“I didn’t know you’re into classics,” he commented, a little jokingly. Killian forced a smile.

“I’m into their worth. On the black market, any of these-” he gestured vaguely to a selection of display cases hosting statues, bowls, cups, and other ornately carved models: “-could bring in a fortune.”

“Oh.” Lance hummed and leaned towards one of the cases, intrigued. The agent stared at a small, goose shaped figure behind the glass, its body an ivory white with relief cuts that emulated the texture of feathers. A short neck was crowned by a simple head atop its plumage. A red embellishment drew the attention of the viewer to the crest of its forehead as small black eyes peered out some distance away from a beak inlaid with a tawny rhino horn. The description along the glass noted that it was a snuff box of the Qing dynasty.

Killian watched Sterling’s eyes widen at the little goose-shaped container, and realized that he was still smiling. Lance had a specific taste - and that was usually small, intricate multi-media sculptures in the form of animals. For that, they’ve stopped numerous times next to cups with dragons carved into the handles, bronze bull figurines once handled by the imperial children, and polished wooden crab pieces with intricate detailing. 

“This is nice.” Lance straightened before nodding at the little goose as if he was a billionaire examining a thousand-dollar necklace. But the (fitted) hoodie and (fashionably) ripped jeans undermined the class in his gesture, and Killian was now highly amused. 

“I suppose,” Killian shrugged - and Lance turned around with an inspecting gaze. Killian cleared his throat and looked down at his watch to avoid eye contact.

“They close in… fifteen minutes. We should get going now,” he shrugged, eyeing the hallway. Lance gave a brief nod and they set their pace.

Rush hour had not come with the setting sun, and the streets had grown hectic in the receding heat. Intersections buzzed with pedestrians, mopeds, and cars alike. Buses rushed through stops, gathering flocks of travelers; slouched and trudging along, eager to get home after a day’s work. The crunch of tires against asphalt, puffs of carbon from exhaust pipes, and the sharp ring of the occasional bicycle carved through the crowds. Killian stuck to Lance’s side as they made their way to a stop teeming with people; before moving through the endless traffic and filtering onto a bus.

It was odd how Sterling didn’t seem to mind Killian compressing himself to him. Odd, but good - there were no other places to go. The double-decker was packed with people. Men in business suits fanned themselves with folders while making rushed phone calls and glaring at women cradled crying infants. Teens with backs slouched against poles shifted like grass in the wind for the elderly to squeeze by. People closed in around them, and for a second, Killian wondered if Lance was claustrophobic as well from the urgency in which he maneuvered through the mass. 

Probably not though. The sea of bodies surged around Killian and he felt trapped - the walls of metal and glass closing in from all sides. He hardly noticed when Lance took him by the elbow; only that they made it to the back of the bus - where the congestion thinned and seats were more abundant.

Well - more like; _seat._ A row towards the back had been mostly occupied by tourists to the right - leaving the left most seats partially open. Lance was gesturing for him to take the only empty one in the middle. Killian took no notice. He was staring at the couple occupying the left-wing.

While the woman had her head resting against her partner’s shoulder, eyes closed in a fitful doze, the man had his elbow resting on his bag. That would be fine - if the bag wasn’t so rudely propped on a vacant seat, next to the one Sterling was waving at now.

Lance said something to him, he wasn’t sure. The next thing Killian knew was that he had plucked the bag from the seat and dumped it into the man’s lap. He watched as the man jumped - startling the woman - as the hefty leather satchel landed on his thighs. The phone, once held in his hand, had dropped between the crack of the seats with his shock. Gazing up at Killian with the most venomous rage a middle-aged white collar could harness, he muttered a series of incomprehensible curses that drew a few concerned glances from the tourist group on the right.

Killian merely ignored him and lowered himself beside the man, before looking up at Sterling; whose mouth had fallen comedically open. 

“Sit,” He said simply, tilting his head towards the originally empty chair. Killian felt the man leaning to fumble for his phone. With a look over his shoulder, he realized that the woman was now, also fully awake and shooting dirty glances at Sterling - as if this was all his doing. It hardly mattered though - as Sterling had dropped himself down on the plastic beside Killian.

“You didn’t have to do that,” was the first thing out of his mouth. The bus had lurched backward and started rolling down the street, slowly picking up pace. 

Killian couldn’t hide his distaste when he spoke:

“What?”

Lance drew in a deep breath, his eyes fixed on a point straight-ahead - a hand gesturing vaguely: “I mean, thank you - but… You didn’t have to do that. It was… A bit rude, yeah?”

Perhaps it was the close quarters, the haze of heat, or even the nearby mind-melting chatter of the tourist and bumps in the road conquered by the tires; but he froze as an unnerving discomfort dawned on him. He didn’t understand how Lance could say that. Sterling, who sat beside him, had one leg crossed over the other, eyes trained on anywhere but Killian. And Killian, for a brief moment, wanted to grab that face and make the agent look at him; to acknowledge him. To argue that he should receive approval rather than criticism.

But he did none of that, and resorted to glaring at a small child that had swiveled in his seat some rows ahead; a toddler - with big brown eyes and a small, button-ish nose, peering from an unobstructed vantage point near his mother’s shoulder. He was too young to understand fear, and Killian was met by an unabashed look of curiosity. His glare only seemed to amplify the child’s wonder, and Killian suddenly felt ridiculous for his irritation. 

Sterling was right. That was rude. But he didn’t care about being rude. He was irked at Sterling for focusing on such negatives - and had become even more irked when he realized how much he cared about what Sterling focused on. The morals of others were never his concern, yet Killian cared all the same. He had done something with consideration. Killian had sacrificed the comfort of a stranger for _Sterling_ , of all people, and was awarded by derision. Even if the act was privately for his own gain, it was blood-boiling. 

Killian stewed in silence for the rest of the ride and didn’t even notice they'd arrived until Lance stood. He looked back one last time before stepping off. The kid was still staring at him.

* * *

Killian must have gone insane. 

Or at least that’s what Lance had thought. He didn’t think Killian was capable of being so kind to him - but for the past few days, all he’d been was _kind._ Smiling, nodding along to his words, asking about his day - Lance had been disturbed, and then suspicious. Something had changed - and he wasn’t sure if it was good, or how long it would last.

Even so, if Killian wanted something by now, he would have told him, right? A small part of Lance wanted to argue that it was about time; about time that he got a semblance of gratitude. It wasn’t exactly easy dealing with the guy - Killian was not personable; so why was he acting like he was? 

Then, a day ago, they had been walking along Victoria harbor one bright and early morning when Lance began to believe that Killian really had a heart, and a change of it. When Killian had banged on his door at six to visit the harbor, Lance had thought that he was joking. Though he sleepily followed, after pulling on a sweater, a jacket, and some pants. Lance only felt the energy return to him when Killian began chatting to him in the cab.

The thirty-minute drive felt like an hour, and Lance almost tripped and face-planted on the pavement in his exhaustion when they got out of the cab. But that’s not to say it wasn’t worth it. The harbor was beautiful at dawn. As a natural landform of Hong Kong, the early rays of the sun seemed to mystify the water. A light breeze left goosebumps on the skin, while the gentle lapping of the waves caressed the rocks along the shore. Killian had fallen silent as they walked, and Lance had felt him brush his shoulder occasionally - head turning to him every now and then as if checking for a reaction. After half a mile or so of leisurely strolling, Killian stopped at a nearby bench, facing the east - and they just watched the sunrise.

Then, with the sun in front of Lance and the wind whipping through the bushes and the clouds collecting like grey blankets in the sky, Killian shivered beside him. And Lance realized that, in his haste, he had simply thrown on a light cotton t-shirt and dark jeans that couldn’t have been very warm. So Lance had removed his jacket and pushed it into his lap. _For you_ \- hung unspoken between them. 

Killian had pulled it on and melted into the fabric. The sleeves were slightly longer than normal, but he said nothing. Instead, Killian had bumped Lance’s shoulder with his own after zipping the jacket up; an almost gentle gesture, a wordless _thank you._

He dragged him off to some other places after that, but Lance didn’t remember those places as well as he did Victoria harbor. Nevertheless, he learned a couple of things about Killian in their endeavors. That Killian quite despised street food, wasn’t particularly great with crowds, and was more than alert during the evenings were just some of them. 

But most importantly, he saw that Killian was trying to move on. He knew from what. Lance could see it; _saw_ it in every bemused quirk of the mouth when Lance cracked a joke. He saw it in Killian’s relaxed posture over his cooking or a plate of food under the warm lighting of restaurants. Like reprises that ghost over each other to form a bigger, more significant song, Lance had begun to believe that perhaps Killian was capable of more than just hatred. And if that was true, Lance felt that he had the responsibility to help him along.

They returned to the hotel around eight after the museum, and Lance was almost certain that Killian was probably starving. As he padded to the elevators, Lance wondered when he had last fed him? It’s been… six hours? Seven? He had a vague memory of getting lunch at a small, British-style eatery downtown. But nevermind that. Lance had fresh groceries sitting upstairs, and he’s been picking up a few local recipes; enough to prepare decent meals. As unfamiliar as he may be with the cuisine of Hong Kong, it was good practice and more than capable of passing the time. And as Killian insisted spending the evening with him, perhaps he’ll cook him something as well-

“Where are you going?”

Lance stopped and whirled around. Killian had stopped some distance down the carpeted hall - staring at him incredulously. He was turned towards the entrance of the hotel restaurant, head tilted to one side.

“I thought we could-” Lance gestured to the elevator and Killian’s mouth fell open in a silent _oh._ Lance shifted his footing against the carpet: “I mean, I got some fresh produce and fish from the docks today. I was thinking I could save us the trouble. Maybe cook something?”

“How would that be saving us the trouble?” was the reply. Sharp eyes swept over him, and Lance frowned - then realized that Killian was turned to the hotel’s restaurant, and his gaze was that of irritated hunger. Lance stepped towards him and peered through the double glass doors. Very few customers were seated; and only a few groups of people crowded the bar. 

“You want to have dinner here? Again?” 

Lance raised an eyebrow at him, and Killian’s eyes widened a little before shifting off to the side awkwardly, as if suddenly self-conscious: “Nevermind. If you want, sure. You can cook. I’m fine with you… cooking.”

And then, of course, Lance started to feel bad. He felt worse when Killian folded his hands behind his back, shoulders falling with a soft sigh. The guy was hungry - and it’ll take time to prep, to clean, to heat up the stove and deliver; no matter if it was well worth the wait, there was still a _wait._

“Alright. C’mon. In you go-” He huffed, pushing the glass door ajar.

* * *

Killian never let himself forget that he needed Sterling’s phone. Miel would do the rest. But he needed his _phone._

It was either that or the laptop, and Sterling had a knack for locking his laptop in the hotel’s safe when not in use. And as Killian had never seen his phone leave his person, he needed to devise a way of spending the night in Sterling’s room - when his phone would perhaps lay by his bedside, unguarded. 

In theory, it was simple; but not so simple now that he was seated across from Lance himself. Killian had hoped for a table next to the commotion of the bar - but was pulled to one of the more private regions; near a window at the front of the hotel. Lance’s nose was buried in a menu, his back to the cushioning of the booth as Killian watched heavy clouds run their tracks through the night sky; heavy with the prospect of rain. 

His plan was flimsy, but it was the best he could come up with at this point. He would take two days to get on Sterling’s good side. With Miel out of Hong Kong, Killian felt better about dragging Lance out of the hotel on such excursions. It was to lower his guard, perhaps lure his mind away from his work. Killian had thought that two days would be more than enough to figure out how to utilize the thumb drive. But he was running out of time. It was the evening of the second day and in less than twenty-four hours, Miel would be back to collect. The thumb drive had not left his pocket, and Killian was desperate. 

But now, he recalled that the hotel had a restaurant. And the restaurant had a bar. It would be a usual dinner; except Killian would stir the conversation - then insist on a drink. Or two. Or three. He could see himself probably saying something stupid, and wobbling just precariously enough to make Lance believe he wouldn’t last a night alone. After being invited to stay in his suite, it’ll just be a game of staying awake long enough to find his phone. 

Of course, the only vice to the plan was that Lance had to give a damn about him - enough to let him in his room for a night. Killian could swallow his pride, but if this failed - leaving with nothing in hand for Miel and an ear-splitting hangover the next day would be a tough price to pay. It was only two days, but Killian hoped that he had garnered enough rapport for this to work. Sterling must care about him - enough for Killian to succeed. That is all.

Dinner progressed without much conversation. They ate, and Lance wondered if he wanted dessert. Killian shook his head and leaned with his elbows against the table. Then he had nodded to the bar:

“You mind if we get a drink?” 

Lance’s brows furrowed a little: “Now?”

Killian looked at him as if to say - _if not now, when?_ But he realized that Lance was skeptical. Killian rolled his shoulders back, and lowered his eyes to the cup of water clasped in his left hand and swirled the drink absentmindedly. So this was it, then. He really was going to refuse Miel’s offer, going back empty-handed after three days. Killian felt his throat close and pulled his eyes from Sterling’s phone - now resting on the table between them. The thumb drive weighed down his mind more than his pocket.

A waitress came over at some point for the bill, to which Lance paid silently. Killian was still swirling the glass of water when Lance rounded the table. He looked up only when Sterling tugged him up by the arm; Sterling - who was surprisingly smiling. Killian for some reason had expected him to be at least a little irritated at his request; perhaps ignore it fully. 

But he wasn’t angry; just smiling as Killian stared at him warily.

“A drink it is, then,” he shrugged.

Stifling his surprise, Killian followed the agent to the bar.

* * *

Lance liked to think of himself as courteous - in both action and speech; to guests, friends, co-workers; the like. And to be honest, Killian was technically a guest. A forced guest, restrained of his own volition, but a guest nonetheless. And Lance had never been one to let his defining traits be overrun by the faults of others. 

Thus, he bought Killian glass after glass of champagne to answer for his own hospitality. Then, he bought himself a couple of martinis because it would’ve looked incredibly unusual if he didn’t; and not just because it’s been a long week. 

But it seemed to work, and Lance realized that Killian got a little chatty when he drank; woozy, spaced-out - parkouring between subjects like a conversational gymnast. It was understandable to Lance - who’s mood swung precariously when he was truly wasted. 

But Lance didn’t feel like getting truly wasted tonight. So he let Killian talk to him about engines and turbines; about professional-quality torque wrenches that were imported overseas. Has Lance seen the sea from the warehouse? There wasn’t much to marvel at. The view was often tainted by workers handling large shipping containers filled with Miel’s trades. 

“Trades?” Lance asked. Killian glanced at him from over the brim of the champagne coupe.

“There are other Triad families besides the Hu,” Killian took a sniff, before tilting the glass back against his lips. Lowering it after a few sips, he shot him a small, dopey smile: “But the Hu’s have been in power for the longest. Too long, some would say.”

Killian mumbled something unintelligible after that, and looked at him with great confusion when Lance answered with _what?_ One brow quirked, eyes wide - Lance had to laugh; which only fed the expression. Lance remembered speaking about some other topics but not much, only that Killian had really become a lot more amicable by the time nine o’clock rolled around. 

For the most part, Lance clasped the stem of his martini, watching Killian’s frame relax with the rise and fall of each breath - until Lance began to wonder if they’ve been talking for too long. The lack of urgency was unfamiliar in his line of work, and technically, he was meant to be working. Sobriety threatened to break through his thoughts. Then Killian made a soft hum and ordered another glass of champagne. 

As the bartender poured that sparkling golden liquid into the rounded coupe, Lance had time to think about Killian, and wonder at how he was still sitting here - with him. Killian was really here; Killian - who would have _“took everything”_ from him - who would have been, in separate circumstances, serving a life sentence. Lance felt a strain in his chest at the imagery of a walled-off cell, no larger than his own Washington walk-in; then of Killian, wasting away his years, slowly going insane under the monotony of solitary instead of chuckling with him over a bartop, cheeks rosy from champagne. 

He never thought about it before, but Lance was struck with a flood of relief and joy. Killian was here. He was here and he was with Lance, and he was smiling, happy. And now, Killian had an elbow propped against the edge of the bar with his hand wrapped around the stem of a champagne coupe which was mostly empty. If Lance was not mistaken, this was his fourth glass.

“What’s witta tuxedos?” Killian leaned forward, eyes tracing the bowtie around his collar and the dark navy suit. Lance noticed that he’d gotten a lot more curious too as he drank - the Australian accent coating his words in syrupy contractions and the occasional slang: “Ya’re gotta be prett’ay uncomfortable in them- or issit just for show? Giving ’em Sheilas a nice view, huh Sterling?”

It was at this point that Lance realized Killian might be drunker than he thought. 

“Ah, sure Kills,” Lance barely registered what he had said in his search for the bartender. Distracted, he found the short-haired woman making a couple of drinks at the end of the counter for what looked like a group of exchange students from Europe. The echoes of their laughter bounced across the room as they were handed pints of beer. 

“Ne’er liked suits, ya know?” Killian slurred out, his grip loose as Lance slowly slid the champagne glass out of his hand: “And ‘specially not ties. Long buggers that make a noose ‘round ya neck. Who wants that?”

So perhaps Lance had underestimated Killian’s intoxication. He fought to piece together information around the martinis fogging up his mind. Killian was drunk. He needed to get him upstairs in one piece. It was nine. Watering down drinks would take too long. They both had work to do come morning. 

“Look - Kills, I think we gotta sober you up a bit-” He muttered to him beneath his breath and waved to the woman who was making her way to him as if wading through molasses. When her eye finally caught his hand in the air, Lance watched her smile, nod, and refill someone’s cup before finally striding to him.

Yet just before the woman could make it to their seats, Lance felt his right arm suddenly clasped by metallic digits and pulled away from him and down towards the level of the bar. He whirled to see that his elbow braced by a steel hand while Killian’s right arm played at his sleeve.

“Is this cotton?” He whispered at him, eyes narrowed - as if the answer to the question held all the secrets of the universe. 

Lance didn’t get a chance to answer. The bartender had reached their spot and was now glancing back and forth between the two in concern. When Killian didn’t bother looking up at her, fingers still kneading into Lance’s suit in a way that was sure to dent the fabric, she turned to Lance.

“Anything else I can get you, sir?” she smiled, lifting the champagne coupe away from Lance and dipping down slightly to return it under the table.

“An americano, please,” Lance said, making a small gesture to Killian. The metallic hand around his arm tightened almost painfully: “With as many shots of espresso as you’re allowed to give me.”

The woman glanced from him to Killian. Her smile widened: “That would be five.” 

“Five is fine.” Lance nodded his thanks - and managed to pry Killian’s hand off him as she prepared the coffee. 

When the mug was set before him, he hummed in distaste.

“What’s this for?” He glanced from Lance to the mug - peering into it as one would peer into a well. 

“For you,” Lance said simply, pushing it to him. Killian drew back.

“Why?” he sputtered, indignant - and Lance had to mentally applaud how much passion he forced into those words. Killian stared at the mug, wrinkling his nose in a way that made Lance reconsider the idea. 

What was he doing? It’s late. The moon was high in the sky. Looking at Killian, Lance knew that he’ll have a hangover tomorrow even after a night’s rest; but at least he’ll have had a night’s rest. Giving him coffee now, though - to sober him up? And then expecting him to make it through the night? Sure it was to get him upstairs in once piece, but Lance didn’t think he would be able to come up with an idea worse than-

...And he drank it. Lance was sure that he was reaching for the cup - had even called out for Killian to rethink this plan of action. But in the time it took for him to change his own mind and Killian to bring the cup to his lips, Lance felt as if his every movement had been submerged underwater - as if there was a force-field around the other man, diluting his senses. So, before he could even process how to get the cup away from him, Killian has downed its entirety.

So with a toss of his head, the mug came away empty and landed on the counter with a conclusive thud. Killian stared back at Lance after dabbing his mouth with a napkin that had been provided beneath the mug. His electric, blue eyes were coated with a sheen of curiosity; as if Lance was the one who needed his concern. Lance began to feel a migraine descend onto him like an impenetrable fog fueled by the haze of alcohol. It was time to go. Pinching the bridge of his nose wordlessly, Lance stood - hauling Killian to his feet by his shoulders.

“Come on,” Lance sighed as he counted out a handful of cash and placed them beneath the base of his unfinished martini. He caught the eye of the bartender once more before they left - who smiled back her thanks. 

Killian stood, a little wobbly. So although he made his way to the elevators without much of a fuss, Lance didn’t dare relinquish the hold about his shoulders until they reentered their hallway. And as Lance unlocked his room, Killian leaned against the wall, eyeing the magnetic key as if it was an alien artifact. Lance noticed that he had been unusually quiet on their way up, and only now, did the soft fabric of his shirt murmur against the covered concrete. One look at him and Lance knew that there was no way he could leave him in the room by himself tonight; not unless he wanted to risk troubling the cleaning staff with completely preventable hazards in the morning.

So Lance managed to half-push, half-pull Killian across the threshold of the hotel room, and upon entering, he watched as Killian swayed to flip himself over the couch - sprawling on it as if it was a victorian lounge - moaning in what was the early onset of sobriety. 

He left him alone for a bit after hanging his jacket up in the closet - before making his way over to Killian, gingerly. Unsure of what to do now, Lance stopped a few inches from the backing of the couch before proceeding further, slower. His eyes danced around the room and landed on a pot by the sink - and wondered if he should bring it over in case this was _that_ kind of situation-

But it wasn’t long before he had already reached the couch. Bracing his arms against the leather Lance peered over at Killian. The man below was digging both palms - robotic and not - into and around his eyes; distributing pressure along his temples and up into his brow bone. Lance cleared his throat:

“Do you want something to drink, maybe?” He asked.

“No, no-” Killian gave a low groan, then sat up so fast, Lance had to leap back to avoid being clocked in the nose: “I’m just - can I just sit for a bit? I just want to sit for a bit.”

Lance stopped, staring at him.

“Yeah. Sure, man.”

He strode over and retrieved the pot before he forgot, then rounded the couch. Dropping the pot softly on the glass coffee table, Lance backed up until his legs folded against the edge of the cushions. He dropped his full weight gracelessly down, the three martinis from the bar still diluting his senses. 

His back had barely sunk into the couch before Lance was jumping back up at Killian’s yelp.

* * *

If five shots of espresso in an americano could burn through all the alcohol in one go, Lance might have snapped his leg if he had been any less sober.

They were both a little drunk (alright, fine - Killian more so than Lance) and the agent was a little drowsy. Understandable; though that didn’t hurt any less when he landed like an anvil on Killian’s outstretched self.

“Sorry-!” He huffed out, leaping up upon impact. Killian snapped his legs into himself so quick he clipped his knee to his chin and hissed with further pain. 

His shins ached as Killian watched Lance fold his legs under himself slower this time - holding onto the plush backing before lowering into a sitting position, one leg curled beneath the crook of another.

Killian in turn had found solace in lowering his legs from the couch and propping his elbow on the armrest of the couch, his head turned from Lance. With his jaw resting on his prosthetic, Killian relished in the sensation of the cool metal pressed against parts of his skin - lifting the intoxication away as he fixed his eyes to the blank flat-screen, casting Sterling to his peripheral vision. 

The agent was looking out the window and suppressing a yawn. His left arm was slung over the back of the couch towards him and Killian noticed its proximity to himself. He felt Sterling glance over at him every few minutes, though otherwise remained undisturbed. Sterling faced the windows and shifted a little on the couch - often running his hand through his hair as his right hand remained in his lap. 

His right hand did not move.

His right hand was curled around his cell phone.

Killian fought the urge to check that the thumb drive was still there - safely tucked in his pocket. But judging from how it had suddenly become so very difficult to sit comfortably without a minuscule ingot of metal boring into his left hip, Killian was pretty certain that it hadn’t left his person.

“Sobering up, now?” Sterling asked after a few minutes, bemused but concerned and Killian realized he was having trouble remembering the past hour. There had been the walk to the bar, the warm buzz of glass after glass of much-needed drinks tipping down his throat; and now he was in Sterling’s suite. Again. The plan had worked. 

So why was he now scowling at the agent? A faint headache throbbed at his temples and he duly noticed Sterling’s hand still resting on his phone. He tried to ignore it - and concentrated on that infuriating smirk. With a deep breath, Killian did his best impression of Walter - giving a smile that he hoped didn’t look too forced. His heartbeat picked up, whipped by the espresso now pumping through his bloodstream. 

“A little,” he shrugged. The phone was still in his lap - and he could tell that Sterling was also a tad woozy. That was good. It wasn’t the first time Killian had needed to lift something off of someone. Alcohol was the bait and a good conversation was usually the line. So he shifted closer to the agent and the fragrance of a vesper martini hovering on his breath flooded into him; both pronounced and inviting. 

He didn’t need to fathom a guess at what Lance would be interested in talking about. 

“The great Lance Sterling, huh?” Killian kept his tone light, joking - with effort: “I’ve heard stories about you.”

Lance cocked his head at him, eyes lidded in a way that Killian thought was halfway between suspicion and amusement. 

“Sure, sure. You’re sort of an urban legend around H.T.U.V too, man.” 

Killian blinked. 

“What?”

Sterling gave him a grin, then yawned. 

“Well, yeah. Even before, you know-” He took a deep breath, and Killian watched as Lance slid the phone into his back pocket: “You’re _McFord._ I mean, _the_ McFord. Broke through the teikoku vault in ‘96. Bribed the CBP into financing the business of a dozen cartels on the southern front. Then… hell - fell off the grid in ‘02 and came back with a seismic undulator and eight hundred tons of PETN-”

“Eight hundred and fifty, actually-” Killian sneered, lightly.

“-Oh, shut the hell up.” Lance laughed with his eyes squeezed shut, bringing a hand up to massage his temple: “As I was saying… What was I saying? That you’re- Well, the bane of the agency at that time. The most stressful month of our lives, after you resurfaced - But even then, taskforce alpha couldn’t track you down.”

Killian huffed and leaned back - the smile suddenly not so forced anymore. Lance’s left arm was still spread across the back of the couch; the fine fabric of his sleeve brushed against the nape of his neck.

“Oh but you tried. Came damn close in Berlin, too,” he hummed out the words in a way that didn’t care to be heard. 

Lance, of course, heard them. His brows pulled into a furrow, fingers pressing into harder against his templed as if trying to draw out a photo in his mind. 

“Berlin ‘07?!” He leaned forward. When Killian nodded, the couch shook as Lance slapped the backing in triumph.

Killian let out a low chuckle at how wide Lance’s eyes had become: “Should’ve checked the host.”

Lance stared at him, and Killian could see his mind working furiously through the alcohol-induced fog:

“The guestlist. The host wasn’t on the guestlist. We busted the entire operation but-” Lance let out a loose chuckle to the ceiling: “- _the host wasn’t on the guestlist.”_

Killian hummed as force of habit made him graze the metallic digits of his left hand together; sharp _clicks_ punctuating the air: “ _Léon Schwarzkopf_...And Kimura thinks he’s got better aliases.”

He wasn’t sure what they spoke about after that; only that Lance had a natural charisma to him. It made for easy conversation as Sterling always seemed to have a way of drawing information from him without quite asking. Killian felt himself sifting through conversations without realizing what he was doing-

“ _Kills, you know, I’m not saying you couldn’t have outrun us, but I’ve never seen you run-”_

_“I’ve been running from you since you knew I existed, Sterling.”_

_“Is that why you’re here now?”_

Or perhaps it was just the coffee cranking his nerves taught as a bowstring; pushing him to eagerly answer every misinformation. It didn’t make him feel any less cheated, though. Speaking to Lance under five shots of espresso was alarmingly similar to being under the truth serum, except Sterling had no lavender quality to him. Instead, Killian was more often hit with a whiff of sandalwood smoked with incense. It rushed to his head like the smell of residual gunpowder left at the end of a Winchester ‘94. 

They burned through all topics except one and it was midnight when Lance finally conceded his fatigue. Killian wasn’t so tired - and told him so even as Lance carried over the extra blankets from his room and pulled the couch into a bed for him. When he was ignored, he’d teased Lance; figuring he wouldn’t let him spend the night alone for his deep, repressed fear of the dark-

“Ah yes, of course,” Sterling sighed dramatically, before throwing a pillow at Killian’s face: “I’m keeping you hostage as my nightlight. You do have some setting for that-” he tapped the edge of his left eye lightly: “-right?”

Killian didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he turned to the floor-to-ceiling window as Lance changed; eyes fixed on the cityscape beyond. 

Lance’s room, unlike his, had a grand view of the harbor to the east. Waters murky under freckles of light contrasted the shadowy cloaks of grand peaks in the horizon. The mountainous range of Hong Kong Island miles away, yet still perceptible, spread their rocky wings in the darkness. No boats rode the waves, tonight - as only the faint whisper of wind tossing the currents and rustling the awnings below made their way to his ears.

A short clack of a metallic object landing on the dresser and the ruffle of sheets broke through the brief silence. Without turning, Killian knew that Sterling had slid into bed, the phone was still sitting upon his dresser. 

He didn’t know how long he stood in the silence, watching the waves. An occasional car would pass by far below. But when Sterling had begun to snore, Killian turned to his bedside table - whose top laid bare. The phone was not there.

He froze, suddenly at a loss. Killian was sure he heard a thump against the dresser top. But there was nothing there - other than a contemporary lamp under a fancy shade; now dark.

It’s fine. Killian took a deep breath. It had to still be in the room. His eyes scanned the bed, the two dressers - and he began to search, quietly. He hadn’t heard the closet open - only scrapes and the flipping of blankets before the light went out. First through the dresser, and then again, over the nightstands - for there were two; one on each side of the bed. The first one was empty - and the second held some of Sterling’s socks. He looked through them and found nothing. 

It was a tedious task. The drawer’s hinges were rackety - contemporary but clearly not aligned properly; and they creaked when pulled too fast or too slow. Killian had to duck down multiple times below the line of the mattress when the agent began to stir. By the time he checked both of them, his back ached from crouching, and he felt ridiculous, almost insulted - stilling every time Sterling’s breathing became uneven; startling at the shifting of blankets. 

He stopped when the second set of dresser drawers had been pawed through and felt the alcohol leaving his head. Killian, posed with his shoulders lowered behind the bed, struggled to recall that Sterling’s suitcase was located beneath it. If he had turned away for him to change, he would not have seen him put down the phone. It would have the potential to still be in his pants pocket. And if he packed them back into the case...

Killian bent down, the light from the window casting a silver sheet over the base of the bed - a thin film of dust tickling his nose and threatened him with a sneeze. The suitcase was not so far in - but the bed wasn’t quite high enough for it to be lifted or opened beneath it. So Killian lowered himself to his knees and reached forward to grab its straps. He gave two tugs before realizing that it had no wheels. 

So it was that Killian held his breath, inching the nylon towards him; eliciting short but deep drawls from the hardwood as it was pulled from under the bed at a glacial pace. He unzipped it at much of the same speed; which wasn’t a speed at all. Killian didn’t doubt that Lance was a light sleeper, so interchanged between checking for movements and progressing the short metal knob around its track. When he managed to crack it open, eventually, Killian shifted through the clothing. 

The pants were tucked neatly to the side and the phone, to his delight, stuck haphazardly in its pocket. He withdrew an adapter and thumb drive. 

_This is for Kyrgyzstan._

Pressing a button to the side, the lock screen lit up with the crest of H.T.U.V; notifying him that the phone was still on. Killian plugged the drive in and waited for the virus to take hold; half an hour. Then every bit of the thumb drive would be packed with the schedule of surveillance to blueprints of the site. He’s waited years for this. What’s another thirty minutes?

_This is not a betrayal._

The thought came unbidden. Betrayal would have implied that Killian had a loyalty to begin with. He did not - not to anyone alive, not to Miel, not to Walter, the agency, and certainly not to Sterling. No matter what he does for him, how he spins his responsibility as generosity, Killian knew better. Sterling was simply doing his job; as he had done years ago, on dry, grassless plains and a pit of blackened soil.

So he kneed the suitcase partially below the bed and sat, eyes on his watch; the hands of sterling silver ticking well into the night.

* * *

The meeting was conducted in the ways of old - over dinner.

Miel’s casino branched across every continent. Indeed, the _Perennial_ rooted itself in international waters - through privately-owned cruise ships that rode waves of the Pacific, Atlantic, and all the seven seas. It was the most suited place to conduct business, as the jurisdiction of law enforcement is replaced by the laws of whatever country’s flag flew from the stern. The crimson cloth emblazoned with the gold stars waved to Miel every time she passed. The Chinese would not persecute one of their own.

The casino was splendid, really - suspended on waves with up to a hundred rooms, a gym, a pool deck, a spa, a smoking lounge, and a club. Miel did not disappoint with cuisine either. Food and drink were taken directly from the ocean, and she was able to pull some strings in procuring fishing licenses and constructing filters for the ship’s water supply. But despite that, sitting in the conference room of the cruise’s restaurant, she ate little. Her mind was running and her stomach had not settled to the tossing of the sea. So she gazed, passively, at the steamed sea bass, sat in soy sauce, sautéd shrimp on beds of fried rice and shanghai style crab that adorned the rotating glass atop a table of silver fabric.

As usual, the food was better than the company. Relations with the other Triad families had grown tenser over the months; with the decline of the yakuza. The 14K, the Four Seas Gang, the Tai Huen Chai, and five other smaller societies thus agreed to gather today to discuss borders - under the grace of the Hu Family - for the first time in a decade. 

For Miel was tired; tired of the petty feuds that plagued her couriers, informants, and traffickers. It rendered her stocks bone-dry and misunderstandings depleted her income. Though the gambling business paid well enough and only expanded with the fall of Kimura’s territories, tobacco was a profitable business as well. Yes - she was tired - tired of having to fend off nightly raids on her side business; small-scale blackmails and threats against pilots and boaters that robbed her of suppliers. A bloody retaliation wasn’t necessary. But an agreement must be made. 

When the last cup had been emptied of tea, Miel rose from her chair; which faced the entrance of the room; overhung by curtains to privatize the area from the other casino goers. She had not reserved the day for business or kept the public from the ship out of courtesy for this occasion, and she could tell it had angered the men around the table; nothing that a good meal couldn’t fix, however. Miel spread a manicured hand lightly atop the table and spoke in concise mandarin - formal, elegant; as befitting that of the Hu family.

“My esteemed uncles, I want to thank you all for coming.” She kept her tone steady but polite. Miel understood that she was the youngest at the table; and yet, still the host to the oldest Family amongst them. There were some familiar faces, no doubt, but Miel did not dwell on that. In fact, her eyes only lingered for a few seconds on everyone - just long enough to express sincerity: 

“I hope that you all see me as an ally. That we are of the same blood as China itself - and let that blood not be shed on grounds that can just as well host negotiations. Here, our families - brothers, sisters, wives, children - would like to see our return each night, able-bodied, healthy, _well_. So I want you to think of me as your friend; and that I am but here to ease the tension between our respective households.”

A soft murmur of agreement had rumbled through the room before settling back into silence. Some brows were furrowed at her, though - namely from the eldest son of the 14K; headed by the Guo family. Their business was the production of heroin and opium out of southeast Asia and had grown like a tumor in recent years through desperation of survival - extorting any activity that generated revenue no matter the dishonor. While families like that of the Jiang’s of the Four Seas Gang and the Chai’s of the Tai Huen Chai remained with their ties intact with China and stayed their hand from revenues garnered through prostitution or human trafficking, the Guo’s had not. 

Yet the sheer size of the 14K had eventually rivaled the Nine-Tailed Fox, and Miel could ignore them no longer. They disgusted her with their barbarity, violence, and dress - like small gangsters she’s seen graffiti buildings and terrorizing locals rather than troops of a respectable, Sinocentric criminal empire. They had no vision, no spine - just an insatiable hunger and repulsive, short-sighted lust for money and power. 

The son, Guo FuSai, had his hands crossed about his chest; his body turned three-quarters to his elderly father; Guo LiWeng. When LiWeng muttered something under his breath, FuSai straightened from the other side of the table. He turned to Miel with a voice carrying an authority he had no right to hold:

“HuMie Liang, you speak of relieving tensions but have pushed back fervently against our forces in the west.” He rubbed the stem of a nearby wine glass and shrugged, then switched from mandarin to English: “The Hu Family denied our call for help in fighting the yakuza. Now that the dust has settled, you wish to annex half their resources. How can we see you as an ally? Much less a friend?”

Silence ensued as soon as FuSai finished - every pair of eyes now fixed on Miel. She forced herself to fold her hands behind her back, eyes committing every feature of FuSai’s to memory. LiWeng was not looking at her - as if she was not worth his attention, as if she was but a child at the helm of a make-belief ship. Miel was offended by the change in FuSai’s language as well. Her throat worked to swallow her anger, and she forced herself to reply in mandarin. 

“The eastern coast is under the Hu name; so it is that we are entitled to the reapings from the yakuza’s fall.” She smiled a smile that did not reach her eyes: “I am not here to list debts, for we all owe each other. But I _am_ here to correct a small deficit in the works.”

She rapped the table with a knuckle and felt Wuxia’s presence behind her, like a shadow. Miel shook her head.

“The fifty million dollars was a set-back, no doubt. But investments fluctuate, and the downfall of H.T.U.V is a long-term one. It was simply not realistic to finance a one-man army. I cannot get you your money back, but I can provide another opportunity.”

She knew the head of the Jiang Family had something to say from the way he stirred. He was a man well into his seventies, with greying hair and sun-beaten face that would have appeared almost kind. But Miel did not respect him; for he had, in his youth, tossed away his familial roots for the name Coastillon - to better assimilate his business into that of the western world. His mandarin was choppy, unkempt - from years of dealing overseas as English tainted his tongue.

Coastillon grunted at her and huffed out words thick with cigarette-use: 

“I ask with all due respect, Mistress: what position are you in to provide?” He leaned forward, spreading sausage-like fingers across the table: “I think I speak for us all when I say that the Hu Family is not what it used to be. Gambling and tobacco, yes - but your father would never have approved of driving business towards war against a _global_ organization-”

“Are you not a global organization?” Her eyes flitted across the table to see naught but sheepish expressions. She felt her nails dig into the palms of her hand: “Is the _Triad_ \- of which hopes to dominate the land, air, and sea - not a _global organization?_ The Americans poach fortunes from you each year, and you sit and twiddle your thumbs. The agency decimates your cargo, saps away at your suppliers, and places your men behind bars, and you do nothing but fight over who gets which shopping plaza.”

“You take from the yakuza who we destroyed-” One Chai Family associate managed to get out before Miel snarled:

“-Who you destroyed? No. Katsu Kimura was the agency’s doing. You really believe that you broke through their ranks at the exact moment they took him down?” Miel shook her head and knew she had very well offended the entire table. Miel didn’t care - they needed to be practical: “But the yakuza’s affairs are of no matter. Now we turn our heads to the agency; who are responsible for losing far more than fifty million in profits _per annum._ There is no better time than now to launch another attack; as McFord’s failure has guaranteed.”

Coastillon let out a heavy sigh, as if the conversation both bored and exhausted him: “I do not believe in that. McFord is dead. If anything, that should be reason enough for this folly to come to an end.”

“An end? You gave him three million- I had him at ten!”

“Oh? So my fifteen million came from thin air, then-?!”

Miel watched the room descend into chaos - every man barking out their finances in spurned pride. Voices cascaded over each other in fits of argument. Miel maintained her silence; even as her lips pulled into a scowl and brows furrowed with disgust. 

Then the room fell quiet when Guo LiWeng stood with a sharp scrape of the chair against the polished marble floor. He ignored her - and addressed the table: 

“Gentlemen, the 14K recognizes that we have all been stolen from, but our dealings fall on empty ground. No debts can be pursued from the grave. So I say we disband this meeting and deal with our losses through the ways of old.”

Miel knew what LiWeng meant by _the ways of old_. They would go back to setting petty boundaries and small feuds. Gangs turning on gangs - there would be shootouts every month, and more murders in the night. The homes of citizens will go back to being raided in funding their battles. Eventually, the Chinese government would step in and ruin business for good. The Four Seas Gang would become assimilated by the bratva. The 14K would melt into the shadows until they are overrun by the Cosa Nostra of the Mediterranean. And the Chai’s share would naturally be split up and bought by every narcotic-funded cartel still in operation.

But not before they tore her apart. Miel saw the way they looked upon the profits of her casinos and the tobacco industry. Her transcontinental powers were an invaluable gateway to the western world and well-desired. She looked to the 14K and thought that was alright. The Hu Family had waged their wars before and won; her father - HuMie Shi - had ensured it. 

But those days were over - and Miel did not have her father’s blessing as her father’s son did. She could not simply eliminate them one by one and risk establishing the same power vacuum as seen by Kimura’s arrest. Nevertheless, they had to go. She stared at Guo LiWeng and thought how they were all men whose ambition failed them the further they ventured into the twenty-first century. The Triad had once been a formidable force that carved their marks into the world - until the world turned too harsh and they turned against each other; squabbling for scraps while the enemies closed in. 

There was no emotion in her voice when she spoke.

“No.”

Coastillon’s neck swiveled to her: “No?”

“No. That would be pointless. What the Triad needs now is a common goal. What I want now is a partnership,” Her eyes fell to the table cloth - watching the way it rippled around plates and cups. Her mandarin dropped a few decibels when she looked up: “The gift of accepting this partnership is life. Your life, the lives of your children and Family. When the agency is vanquished, I will remember who accepted this offer and have your gift on hand. You have my word.”

“The word of a Fox,” FuSai sneered out without standing, and a peal of low laughter made itself around the table. 

“Do I frighten you?” Miel asked and FuSai’s beady eyes jumped to her. She recognized it as a look of outrage and insecurity. The need to impress his father and the clan heads around them made his face curl into an expression of belligerent pride. He chuckled and gritted out: 

“Of course not. Why-”

Miel turned her head to the side and nodded at Wuxia. 

The next few seconds blurred into one heartbeat. Wuxia reached up to press a button in her earpiece. Miel pulled a cigar from the lining of her dress. Two men stepped through the curtained entryway soundlessly. Miel withdrew a lighter from her pocket. They wound their way around the table - and she watched the end of the cigar smolder. 

Then Miel drew the smoke into her mouth, FuSai was pulled from his chair with a furious howl. She exhaled and the curtains had closed on a bark of anger - now heard from outside.

Half the table had risen with FuSai. Wide eyes, raised brows and gaping mouths swiveled between herself and FuSai’s now empty seat. Miel looked past them - to LiWeng; who had finally acknowledged her, and who was very much fuming.

She took another drag from her cigar: “I want to make one thing clear to everyone in this room. If I do not have your respect, I will have your fear. And if I cannot have your fear-” the smoke puffed from her lips: “-then I will take your life.”

She shot a look at LiWeng - whose eyes had grown wide as saucers. His face had drained of blood under the chandelier, a certain realization dawning on her words.

“I invited you all here today not to start a war, but to end one - yet you continue to trade insults. You insult my hospitality, and your son-,” with the cigar, she gestured to the heavy curtains that have fallen still: “-has dishonored your name with his behavior.”

Miel took a moment to drink in the desperation of LiWeng’s eyes, then sighed prettily: 

“Country comes before family, yes? It always has - such is the Triad. We are not animals - to kill for our offspring and to fight for blood. But I’m sure you would understand. ” She shrugged a little, but realized, of course, they could not. 

“What do you want?” LiWeng’s voice reached her ears in a low growl. 

Miel let a small smile grace her lips before extending her hands openly, looking around the room: “Friendship. I will spare your son, and in turn, all of you will leave here in peace and come when I call. Your services are to be mine as mine are to be yours. Nothing has changed.”

A small rumble flitted through the room. Eventually, terms were drawn up. There were those that wanted to see the agency burn and those that wanted to tremble in the shadows. Before they left, however, Coastillon offered the support of the Jiang family and resources of the Four Seas Gang internationally; from Moscow to Madrid - ten Aim-B Sidewinder short-range ballistic missiles and twenty men. The Tai Huen Chai granted the use of their suppliers; and a series of Toyota Hilux's for further transport. But the 14K maintained their silence. She asked nothing of the Guo name.

The last of them left around midnight; some leaving by boat, others leaving by helicopter. Miel relaxed when she escorted the last of the Triad heads out - a man of a smaller Family by the name of Yue Fuzi; shrewd and well-versed in the legal business. When his chopper rose into the sky, Miel gave a final wave before turning back to the cruise deck. 

She trudged back down on the steep steps to the main landing - arm held out to Wuxia for balance, while another clutched at the base of her dress. The cruise housed a motorboat in its belly; and she had ordered it deployed for their roundtrip back to Beijing. Miel would not spend the night on the floating casino - as she preferred the solidity of ground beneath her feet.

* * *

Wuxia was furious. 

She had never been one to let emotions run her work; as that was as good a guarantee of death as any. She’s been in the business long enough to understand that nothing was ever personal. Torture extracted information and murder furthered agendas. Though headed by “Family”’s, Wuxia found that there was little familial about the relationship within the Chinese mafia. It wasn’t like the tight-knit gangs of the Neapolitans or Sicilians; where men were too busy dying for vendettas to put food on the table. The Triad cared only about _survival_ \- and would not mind spilling their own blood to achieve it. Or perhaps that was just the case with the Hu’s. She had only ever worked with the Nine-Tailed Fox; but there must be a reason why they were the longest reigning Triad Family through history - even if they, oftentimes, the smallest. 

A series of railings led down the side of the cruise ship, and Wuxia was handed Miel’s heels as she climbed down the railings; a small white smudge slowly getting smaller by the second. A runabout motorboat floated on the Bohai Sea beneath the side of the cruise ship; rolling, pitch-black waters in the dark.

When Miel had dropped into the back of the boat, Wuxia followed - one hand on the rails, another clasping the heels against her chest. The roar of the sea smashing against the hull of the ship rose and fell with her anger, and only increased in magnitude after dropping beside Miel. 

The mariner at the wheel ignited the engine and the boat hummed to life beside the ship; kicking off the port side with a spray of saltwater. A beam of light heralded their path and the boat pulled away into the night. The head of the boat reared against the waves bumpily for the sea was restless tonight. Wuxia shifted to and felt her legs ache with the strain of standing for hours. Swinging an arm naturally behind Miel, she watched the horizon - but not for long. Her eyes fell to the white-haired woman. 

Miel was quiet - too quiet. Her eyes were fixed on the dark waters below, and Wuxia felt her heart break. She had seen her like this before - on nights hosted by far too much cognac. It never led to anything good when she got like this - silent, contemplative, with her eyes lowered as if scanning the ground for a lost penny. Wuxia saw her mind trapped in the past.

“What do you plan to do about LiWeng?” she asked above the sound of the sea, pulling that mind back to her. Miel’s head lifted with her plume of white hair caressing the wind.

“Nothing.” The boat leaped over a particularly rough wave. “Not until this business with McFord is over.”

Wuxia nodded, though Miel was not looking at her: “You didn’t tell them that he’s alive.”

It was a humble question. Wuxia had long learned that Miel did not like to be pestered with direct askances.

“They would not have trusted me if I had.” Miel sighed, then turned to her - brown eyes searching through hazel. Wuxia had always found her stare a disconcerting, so she averted her gaze quickly out of both discomfort and respect. 

It was too late. Miel had caught her gaze anyway. She gave a soft sigh: “Don’t be angry. What an ugly emotion - turning men blind and women mad… It’s never personal.”

 _How could you say that?_ Wuxia wanted to scream after Miel looked away. _How can you sit through their derision, their looks of hatred, and come away saying that it’s not personal?_

Or perhaps it was just another tactic of survival. _It’s not personal_ \- she had to tell herself that. Perhaps more than once. 

Wuxia had been told by her father that Miel’s parents abandoned her when she was a child. But they were not the ones that found her - and she was not a baby when the Hu Family had tossed her out. In fact, little Mie Liang had been old enough to read, write, and was even well-versed in dance. Wuxia; a year her senior, remembered giving the girl piggy-backs around their parent’s courtyard. In the summer, Wuxia would train with her father and brother as Mie Liang cheered from atop the manor’s stone walls. How she got up there, Wuxia never knew. In the winter, Mie Liang would wake her at dawn and run across the frozen fields of their countryside retreat so fast, Wuxia barely had time to grab their jackets. Reaching the forest, Mie Liang would withdraw sets of Chinese firecrackers that she had stolen from Hanzi and light them with Wuxia. Hung from trees, they would watch the red casings convulse and pop in a splendid array of smoke mixed with the chilly, morning air. Little Mie Liang never cried - never fussed. She was the model child; kind, generous, responsible - and excelled in dance; particularly with that of the sword and fan. 

But, it wasn’t enough. Not when her brother entered the world - HuMie Ri. A boy brought status and was able to carry the family name. So when Mie Liang stopped showing up to family dinner and nightly walks along the bay, Wuxia had known that something had happened. She had asked her father and was given no answer. It pained her to an extent. Her friend was simply gone. 

But the brain of a child is meant to forget, and Wuxia got older. Taught all she needed to know by her father, she came to grips with the fact that her duty was to the Hu Family. Her brother, as well - had no other notions besides that, and the years drifted by like clouds rolling through the sky. Then there had been HuMie Shi’s death; which came after Mie Ri’s graduation from university; a shoot-out between a rival group. She did not remember which. 

What she did remember was the funeral. And the woman in the white, leather dress while all others wore cotton or silk. She had approached the tomb with condescension and found the Hu family in the crowd. Wuxia had watched the Madame embrace her daughter, as Mie Ri stood to one side with shocked eyes. After eleven years, HuMie Liang had returned.

Straight black hair had made way for shorter, curlier white strands bleached ghost-white; a color that made her look like a phantom. She insisted on being called Miel, and Miel did not recognize her at first - not until Wuxia was brought up by the Madame Hu. A sharp nod and slight furrow of the brows were all she got as an acknowledgement of their shared past. 

Then weeks progressed into months under Miel’s command and Wuxia was quick to realize that the kindness of the child was gone. The wide-eyed girl that climbed the manor walls and raced to set off firecrackers with her had been replaced by a woman of little joy and much cruelty. For a time, Miel gave her little besides commands and when they spoke, she kept conversations to a minimum; as if it pained her to speak to Wuxia.

What happened in those eleven years lay unspoken between them. Wuxia does not know, and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to know. But business went on as usual, and Miel's trust for her developed over time; helped along by a few foiled assassination attempts. There became an unspoken bond between them; even if Wuxia knew that things could never be as they were. 

“What day is it?”

She had turned to look at her. The lights of the Caofeidian Port illuminated the waves in a way that showcased the brown murkiness of the bay. It stretched behind Miel like a rolling brown carpet; tainted with pollution and thick with disease. They were inland far enough now for Wuxia to realize just how smog-choked the waters were. There was a reason why Bohai Bay had no fish stocks; the draining of heavy metals from Tianjin was fully responsible for that. 

“The sixth.”

“Alright.” She scooted backward on the seat until the nape of her neck was pressed to the crook of Wuxia’s elbow. Wuxia got the hint, and folded her arm across the leather-cloaked shoulders; letting Miel press herself against her gently; as if Wuxia was a pillow with a case she didn’t want to crinkle. Then she spoke:

“What happened today should not have happened. The 14K will be insulted. That is natural. But I want you to make sure of something.” She stopped. Then huffed out in one breath: “I want you to make sure that no word of McFord crosses their ears. They do not expect that we have the resources for war, but they will go after him if they suspect he lives. I cannot have that until my work with him is complete.”

A rush of water parted over the bow; throwing a fine, salty mist over Wuxia’s face. She waited as HuMie Liang pursed her lips:

“The agency will fall. And then McFord will run; you must finish the job before that happens. Do not let Hanzi know; I understand that he has a soft spot for him. I cannot afford a compromise on this front. Now, the Four Seas Gang will support us; so will the Tai Huen Chai. But you must ensure that McFord is dead when they do. Or they would fight over him for unpaid debts - and become weak enough for the 14K to take their picking.” 

Miel said nothing else after that, and Wuxia noted that her eyes had fallen back to the waters below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lance Simping Hard for Killian is my jam :3
> 
> UofT's engineering science program is a kid on a sugar high armed with a baseball bat and I am a pinata. Chapter 12 will be a little delayed. I am hoping to get it out by Nov 28th. Please do not presume I have Given Up. I swear there is So Much Action awaiting your beloved eyes. After I ensure I don't fail structures and materials, that is. :)))


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This entire chapter's almost 15,000 words. Good luck and have fun, I guess? T.T

Hong Kong woke at sunrise, and so did Lance. When the first slivers of dawn crept over the horizon, he had already thrown on an outfit; albeit slower than usual. Squinting when light flooded the giant, curtainless panes and wincing at the honks of traffic below (he never recalled it being so _loud-_ ), Lance shuddered before pulling on a light sweater. No matter how stifling hot it got during the day, mornings were often always a little chilly - and there was nothing worse than catching a preventable cold.

Except, perhaps a hangover. A light migraine throbbed at his temples - the two martinis lingering from the night before. Lance tried to shrug it off as he dragged himself around the edge of the bed. He had a report to turn in, some recon to work through, and sites around Hong Kong to visit. Joy would be checking in for the first time in less than a week, and he needed to be prepared to give a summary on the mission, on items in discovery, and Killian-

Killian was asleep. In a twisted mass of navy blue fabric, and fitted denim, he laid - passed out on tan fabric raveled atop the couch bed. Curled on his side across the width of the bed rather than the length, Killian had his sleeves rolled to his elbows - his brows furrowed a little and shoulders taut. It was artistic, Lance thought. With his pale skin bathed in a honey-gold from the rising sun, Killian looked like some sort of modern renaissance painting.

Lance was passing by him on the way to the kitchen when he realized that Killian was a little too hunched in on himself. Hong Kong mornings were not temperate to those resting _on_ and not _under_ blankets, so Lance returned to the bed and gathered the lighter fleece comforter that laid atop the main blanket. He carried it back on the couch; making sure to step behind Killian so as not to wake him by casting his shadow against the sunrise - before spreading it over him gently. Lance froze every time the man stirred, lowering the comforter as softly as he could. The fabric finally rested over Killian after a torturous minute - reducing him to a grey, hopefully warmer, lump at the center of the room.

It was odd what a good hangover could block out. Never once did Lance stop to think about how odd the situation was. Nor did he really want to. It was too early in the morning for that. Killian slept soundly as he called for room service and only tossed a little when a knock came at the door and trays of food were brought in. When Lance had finished setting the table and Killian had still not moved, he checked the clock. Fifteen minutes till the cab would roll into the lot. 

Lance was loathed to wake him - but nevertheless gave Killian a light push on the shoulder. Killian stirred under the comforter - which seemed to be wrapped tighter than before. 

“Hey...” The word came out too soft. Lance cleared his throat: “Time to get up if you want breakfast.”

A low moan erupted from one end of the fabric. A mass of black hair poked out - grey strands blending with the fleece. Lance nudged him harder where he suspected was his shoulder, and the moans morphed into words:

“Bugger off- _”_ A pause, then Killian mumbled as if in an afterthought: “I’m tired.”

“Aren’t you hungry?” Lance frowned, punctuating each word with a poke. There was a pause - after which a heavy sigh came from the mass before the fleece was thrown to the side, and Killian emerged, sporting a bedhead like no other.

He tossed a glance at Lance before running a hand down his face.

“You gave me coffee.” Killian snarled after a moment - speaking as if Lance had chloroformed him. 

“Yeah - so neither of us had to get up in the middle of the night to you retching your guts out-” Lance fell silent when Killian gave him a blood-curdling glare. So he sighed instead and patted him on the shoulder before swiveling around: “But sure. Breakfast’s on the table.” 

* * *

Killian stood with difficulty - the room dancing around him as if he had once again been hit with that kaleidoscopic grenade-shaped projectile - light coming in chunks and sounds in a dizzying array of flashes. A dull pounding in his ears and a sharper pulse behind his eyes spoke of a hangover, but Sterling was at the table with breakfast and he had to get up - he had to. 

And he did - eventually. Killian hardly registered the scrape of the chair or the food in front of him or Lance watching him as he ate - mechanically, like an automaton that’s been wound up. The glass dining table in the kitchen space felt much too cold to the touch, and the room much too bright for his eyes. 

So Killian finished breakfast methodically - not quite aware of what he was eating and only vaguely registered Sterling’s comments on what work he had to get done today. Killian didn’t look at the agent - didn’t and couldn’t. Not when he knew the thumb drive was still tucked in his pocket. 

Then there was a brief silence, and Lance tapped on the table to get his attention. Killian glanced up momentarily. With his head tilted to one side, he briefly wondered if Sterling was still drunk; for him to be grinning at Killian like one would stare at the constellations; eyes half-lidded, cheeks lifted in an almost flustered sort of way. 

“Hey, uh…” Lance cleared his throat, the hand that was tapping at the table retreating to his lap: “So. I wanted to ask when you’ll be done with the..” he shrugged, paused a little, then continued: “...you know- the project?”

Killian blinked at him and frowned. It took him a second to piece together what the agent was saying. The memories of the warehouse, Miel's deal and pieces of aircraft engine and hydrogen fuel cells came flooding back to him.

He cleared his throat: “I thought I told you.”

“Can’t I forget things once in a while now?” Sterling chuckled at him with a newfound warmth, and Killian's heart dropped like an anvil. 

_Don't think about it. You're almost there. Just a drink too many. You've nothing to say to him. Time to go._

His focus shifted to Lance's hand - which was fidgeting with a fork.

“It’s mostly done. I still have a few things to get through. Though it should be all over by Friday.” Killian shrugged and noticed with no small amount of irritation that the gesture mimicked Sterling’s. Lance nodded from across the table and scraped his plate clean. Killian, in turn, found no need to speak, and the food settling in his stomach had begun to churn - driving his headache behind his eyes. Sterling, to his gratitude, said nothing as well. 

They simply sat in silence, until restlessness overcame him. He pushed the now empty plate away from him, absentmindedly. He could feel Sterling’s eyes on him - watching him rise from the chair, a metallic hand dangerously clipping against the glass table in his haste to stand. There was a wordless intention in the gesture. 

_I’m done. Leave me alone._

The message was clear, he thought. But Sterling’s eyes were still fixed on him; too searching, too bright. He avoided it - striding over to the door, head tilted at the white panels of painted oak. Escape, Killian thought, lay on the other side.

“Sterling-” He scuffed his shoe on the carpet, unsatisfied by the lack of the _clicks_ he was so used to associating with linoleum, metal, or concrete beneath his heel. 

Lance’s head swiveled between himself and the kitchen, before being framed by a short shrug. He rose, a lethargic movement, and as he approached, Killian was again reminded of the agent’s height. Short black curls rose an inch above his currently less than immaculate locks. A short burst of frustration rose in him, and the room spun. He straightened, felt his eyes narrow - then was hit by the familiar scent of sandalwood and unshakeable gunpowder rising from Sterling’s person as he brushed by Killian to reach for the door.

The refuge of the hallway presented itself before Lance could utter another word, and Killian slipped across the threshold-

Until his arm was caught by Sterling’s grip - and Killian would deny the gulp that escaped him. Surprise soured to anger quite quickly though. Whirling, he prepared to snap his arm out of Sterling’s grasp, when the agent murmured something to him, barely audible:

“Be careful, alright?”

Killian stopped – his arm going slack in Sterling's grip, and faltered even as he was let go of. At some point, he both saw and heard the hotel door close and as if struck by a thunderbolt, Killian stood in the hallway of the hotel for a minute that felt like a decade. For a while, or perhaps not at all, he remained – eyes flitting between the now-closed door and the elevators. He heard the elevator doors open and shut a few times – dull beeps of buttons being pushed by other patrons – and still, he did not move. Later, Killian would tell himself that he was simply tired – that the haze of the morning had not evaded him. But that was as much a lie as if he said that the ghost of Sterling’s smile had not followed him onto the Kai Tak runway.

* * *

The commotion of Hong Kong’s waterways kept Marcy busy – and the light public awning overhead was the perfect shelter from the last rays of the setting sun; still spitting fire on the skin. The day had been eventful. She had pursued the woman with the white hair for the last few days - digging up new leads and resurfacing old ones. Eyes and Ears had kept patrol; their jetlag long forgotten.

Marcy worked in silence though. Apart from requesting back-up from DC, she kept conversation to a minimum with HQ and only ever used payphones, walkie-talkies with Eyes and Ears and burners. This was the enemy’s domain; and she knew the lines would be monitored.

The woman with the white hair was vigilant, she’ll give her that. Marcy managed to follow her for an hour that night at the airport after the taxi drove Eyes and Ears back to the hotel. There had been a trade of some sort with a man whose features had been obscured by the darkness. She did manage to snap a photo though. The man’s name was Abruzzo. His sister worked at H.T.U.V.

She eventually lost the woman a quarter to midnight when the procession pulled away. Marcy had dully noted that the vans were without license plates. That was fine. She had enough photos to identify them all. Except, fieldwork was never without its interference from bureaucracy. It would still be a couple of months before the approval for agency examination of citizenship databases would be granted by the Chinese government; so Marcy had no other information apart from a few faces, some dimly-lit photos... and Sebastian Abruzzo. It was better than nothing; and honestly, more than she had expected when she examined the night’s harvest back in their make-do hotel room.

She wasted no time doing a sweep on Abruzzo’s profile - allegiances, finances, history, and aliases. Then there had been family ties; Elia Abruzzo – a third-year intern in the Department of Information and Operative Detection. Internal affairs had a branch in that regard, and Marcy felt herself shudder at remembering the envelope passed to the woman in the white hair. A thousand possibilities raced through her mind – none of them particularly good. HuMie Liang was planning something. So was Marcy.

She called her team from Hong Kong on Monday – noting them to secure Elia Abruzzo. But Sebastian’s sister was gone, and that was when Marcy decided she would not be leaving Hong Kong. When no word from DC of Elia’s appearance arrived, sending out a search warrant for Sebastian and Elia’s arrest had been the next course of action. Not that Marcy had very high hopes for their recovery. She did not take HuMie Liang to be a fool.

Marcy leaned back on the stone bench and turned the walkie talkie over and over again in her hand. Eyes looked from her to the dock in concern. The waters lapped against the concrete and rebar; straining against the constant shouldering of the waves that crashed along the pier. A heavy fog brought on by light precipitation at noon obscured much of the waterfront. Marcy mentally applauded the Fox for choosing such a date for transport. The weather would be on her side; but her agents would have the element of surprise. It would almost be an even exchange of wits.

The walkie-talkie suddenly crackled to life in her hand. She raised it to face and bolted upright – startling Ears beside her. Collin’s voice rose to meet her attention:

_“Agent Kappel, we’re in position.”_

Marcy knew what that meant. The skiff was prepared. She looked to Eyes – who nodded at her. Target located – they’ll have to move out soon. She voiced as much to Collin.

_“Alright, then. HQ sent twenty – we’ll be landing near the International.”_

“Yes.” Her knuckles grew white around the device: “This might be a hostile takedown, you were briefed on that, I hope?”

There was a smile in Lieutenant Taylor Collin’s voice when he spoke: _“Affirmative. Though I don’t know about hostile, Kappel. That kid Beckett’s got some style; sending us in with non-lethals. But hey, this stuff worked with McFord, no?”_

“Right. Well, new policies, Collin.” She responded distractedly, squinting into the horizon. The sunset had painted everything in the fog as dark silhouettes against a smear of pastel blood orange. She was looking for the skiff, even though there was still an hour to go. The walkie talkie fell silent again, and Marcy shifted her shoulder blades against the coolness of the marble at her back. For the first time in two days, she thought about Lance Sterling.

The agent ought to know that there would be an interception tonight, Marcy thought. Eighteen hours of solid research, digging and recon from that singular interaction in an international airport had led to little result – except for one recorded conversation. Marcy had picked up the transmission from following satellite imaging of the only Citroën DS with silver rims and fully tinted glass residing in Hong Kong. She had tracked it for six and a half hours; leaving Kowloon, making its way around the city before finally stopping at a casino on the shore of Victoria Bay, three miles south of where Sterling was stationed. 

It wasn’t as if she really wanted to pursue this case, Marcy had privately confessed to Eyes and Ears when asked about their next course of action. But sometimes, convenient acts of assistance saved lives, and in their line of work – she had experienced her fair share of events where this principle had been the case. It simply would not do to sit back, twiddling their thumbs as they checked for travel to commence back to Washington. So, Marcy visited the casino, decked in surveillance equipment, and waited for something to surface.

She didn’t have to wait for long. By noon of the next day, Ears picked up a conversation about a certain shipment, a buyer, and a liner setting sail with a profitable amount of munition. The Fox would be expecting a convoy of heavy artillery arriving tonight, somewhere from the southeast region of Victoria Harbour. Fifty pounds of black gunpowder, a hundred and twenty assault rifles, eighty hand grenades and enough glocks and colts to fund a small army was ripe to fall from the deck of a certain ship bound to dock in the early hours of Tuesday morning.

Marcy knew that she could not simply let this happen. Requesting backup from HQ was tricky business, and to avoid the storm (which the airline had informed them of progressing from Siberia to the Midwest now), incoming help would need to fly over the equator. Paperwork delayed the transfer of agents overseas to deal with this issue, so Marcy had been at odds with an entire department for days – wondering if she would need to carry out a police raid alone, on foreign waters, with less preparation, equipment, and cover than any single agent in DC.

But the tact team did arrive on time; in fact - barely three hours ago - just skimming the deadline. Taylor Collin was a good man and a better field lieutenant, holding a particular specialization in interceptions from his time spent in service with the military. His men were loyal and battle-hardened. But Marcy, not for the first time, wondered why she didn’t just contact Sterling for all this. In terms of field missions, he had more sway than herself – than anyone she could think of, really – in the agency. But something was off about this mission, and Marcy simply had a gut feeling _not_ to rope Lance into this spur-of-the-moment madness.

Because as she sat back, watching the fog rolling across the harbor, she realized that was what this was. Nothing seemed amiss for months, and suddenly the threat was here, looming over herself, over the entire mission. She still couldn’t see it too clearly though – as if a blanket obscured her vision, but she knew that there was something on the other side. Marcy did not fully understand it herself. But she needed to, and soon.

She checked her watch for the fifth time in an hour and sighed. Perhaps she should call Sterling and check-up with him about this. Work had become less about preventing disasters and more about figuring out what the disasters could be. Whatever happens tonight, she might come to kick herself if Lance wasn’t aware of the situation.

“I’ll be back. Just gotta make a call,” She said to Eyes and Ears when they followed her movement as she rose from the bench. There was a payphone on the same side of the street; near a little bookshop that was always filled with more than just books. Snow globes often peppered its display cases – along with some souvenir pillows that catered to tourists. It’ll do, for the time being, Marcy thought as she made her way to it.

Dropping a few quarters in, she punched in the number of The Eclipse hotel and waited to be transferred to the front desk. The conversation in between was limited to a few words. The staff was under H.T.U.V’s payroll, after all. They knew what to do, and did not delay in directing her to one Agent Sterling’s room of boarding.

Marcy’s call was answered on the fourth ring.

* * *

“What do you mean you only have dry food?”

The man behind the counter rolled his eyes and drummed his fingers impatiently:

“Exactly what it sounds like. We’re out of canned. Store’s getting restocked. You can come back next Monday.”

Walter sighed and nodded his thanks before leaving the store, stifling feelings of defeat. He’d specifically left the house an hour early to pick up some much-needed feed for the cats on his way to work. Clearly though, his efforts were in vain.

But as he made it to the station just in time for the next A32, Walter found that commuting through, early-morning traffic in D.C had its own blessings. For the first time since he got back, Walter was able to avoid the crowds. The bus was quite known for them at all times of day, and to beat being elbowed in the chest and or getting a nasty stomp on the foot, Walter had evolved to become much nimbler than necessary. His tact was always avoid, avoid, _avoid._ If he could avoid having an awkward conversation with his secretary about the state of funding in the department, he could avoid being bruised by a backpack or two. He had considered perhaps getting a car, but then again, it wasn’t the most environmentally-friendly option.

It was while Walter was debating the benefits of a bike when the bus lurched to his stop. He got off, not without a smile at the middle-aged woman with streaks of gray and polarized sunglasses in the driver seat. Stepping onto the walkway and crossing the street, the idea of cycling to work clouded his mind. Would it be worth it? Lance had, on multiple occasions, noted that he needed all the exercise he could get. Walter had politely reminded the agent that it was Lance who exercised, ran about to save the world, so that people like himself would never need to lift more than a pen. It brought about a good chuckle from Marcy at the very least, though Lance wasn’t as convinced.

Walter smiled at the recollection as he ascended the steps to the Lincoln Memorial. It was not until he was halfway up the steps that he noticed a group of people descending the same flight toward him; a group of _agents_ , in particular. They were not in uniform, but Walter could tell nonetheless. There was something about the way they walked – the careful but deliberate pace of their steps entranced him. A black-haired man, built like a bull, led the procession. Behind him was a tall woman with curls that cascaded to her shoulders. A few more men followed; one bald, another with a sandy beard and eyes lined with crow’s feet. From what Walter could see, they carried no weapons, though the tall woman had what looked suspiciously like a taser strapped to her belt.

Walter kept his head down when they passed, though wisps of their conversation floated to him.

“…It’s not an extraction. We’ve been ordered to dump all of it in the harbour.”

“That seems like a waste, no?”

“Hey – Kappel’s orders. The operation is urgent, there wouldn’t be time for keeping any souvenirs. Besides, the repurposed M9s are more than funding this year's weaponry."

“Sure, sure. Say, what the hell’s internal affairs doing in Hong Kong anyway-?”

“Something about a redemption mission, god, John – just let it be. It’s not meant to take long anyway. In-and-out operation. Eighty percent of it’ll probably be the flight there ‘cus of this damn storm...”

Walter didn’t hear what the man named John had to say about that. The agents had moved out of earshot. For an insane moment, Walter considered turning around, racing forward and inquiring as to what they were talking about. Frankly, Walter felt as if he needed to know. But as he watched their backs retreat down the stairwell from him, Walter realized that though he admired the agents of H.T.U.V, he feared them as well. It was this work that he did – OTIUM – that was powered by a desire to make the occupations of such agents less fearful to him. The safety was of the gadgets and the non-lethality approach was bundled in with that lack of fear.

So as Walter continued up the steps of the Memorial, he wondered and worried about Marcy and Lance. Killian, too – he supposed. Though Walter didn’t know if it’ll make much of a difference. The few times he’d expressed to Lance a willingness to be in the field with him, dodging bullets and dishing out inflatable hugs again, the agent had laughed it off. He was skeptical, but Walter knew such skepticism came from a good place.

He looked back down the steps and watched the group of agents round the corner. A van awaited them on the side of the road, its ignition fired up. Walter turned back to the steps, stomach now heavier with more than just breakfast.

* * *

Wuxia’s footsteps were as quiet as they were determined. 

It was a quarter after two in the morning. From atop the roof of the Kai Tak’s casino complex, she fought the urge to rub her eyes, which were directed to a spot on the peninsula. A small light on the churning waters, which she had been staring at for the past half hour, blinked at her, before growing just a bit larger. A yacht beckoned to her some distance away, and she could just make out the shape of a smaller boat, riding the waves beside it, a jet-black smudge atop the pitch-dark harbour waters.

The boat (a yacht) grew a little larger. It was towing a skiff behind it, though. She didn't bother thinking too much of it - and instead focused on the yacht. Her name was the _Gypsea,_ a beautiful boat no doubt; Hanzi’s prized possession. Her brother lent it to the use of Miel’s fleet occasionally. Not that he ever refused, but Wuxia knew he held his breath every time it set sail for a job. Tonight, was no exception.

_“Just for the weekend, right? You guys aren’t using her for firepower? As bait?”_

_“My god, what are you – married to the thing? It’s just another run-of-the-mill artillery collection. Fuheng’s driving. She’ll be fine.”_

_“It’s not driving. The correct term is conning.”_

_“Just for that, I’m telling him to sink her.”_

_“Wait!”_

She lost sight of them when she turned to slip off the roof of the building. Wuxia clambered deftly to the back of the Perennial. The edge of the harbor was paces away. The yacht eased into the dock and Wuxia closed the distance between herself and the white hull that was more gray than white in the dark. A few figures leaped off the craft and Wuxia felt her fingers trace over the gun clipped to her thigh at the motion. But those were Miel’s men. Her people. She tried to relax as they began to lower the contents of five week’s worth of silences and pay-outs. There would be no faults tonight. There could be no faults tonight.

“Stop.” She called out. Fuheng set down a metallic suitcase he had been hoisting onto a casino trolley and took a step back. He kept a hand on the handlebar of the trolley to steady it - as Wuxia bent down to examine the case. 

The surface of the metal was wet. Alarm flooded through her. Her hands found the clasps and she threw the lid open - salty droplets spraying onto her arms and informing her of tiny cuts through an incessant stinging. She took no heed though - not when the AR-15 and assortment of explosives stared back at her – the shells cracked, glistening with an accusing dampness under the streetlights.

Wuxia stared into the case, wordlessly, before her eyes caught the barrel of a 92FS Beretta Vertec, tucked in the corner. Stainless steel encased in a textured grip made up most of the gun, which seated itself in the Styrofoam. Wuxia picked it up – gesturing for a flashlight, which was handed to her. A beam of LEDs ran over the weapon and found the slide stop – deformed under a cracked bullet chamber. She flipped the gun over and inhaled sharply. Just as she feared, a hole was drilled into the barrel.

"We couldn't find the crew. There was only supposed to be the loaded yacht and a five, I believe, that Taiyin paid off earlier this week. But the yacht was empty when we received them." Fuheng was rattling out to her - emotionless as always. But when Wuxia looked up, she noticed that his face was pale under the streetlight.

She took a deep breath.

"How many?"

"We don't know. Ten? I would guess a maximum of twenty."

"Twenty it is then," She traced a finger over the hole in the barrel of the Vertec: "Did you take inventory?"

Fuheng nodded, before procuring a piece of paper from the breast of his jacket. Wuxia snatched it, scanned the rough figures. A curse slipped through gritted teeth. The ship captain was still staring at her when she looked up. The concern in his eyes made her want to scream over the sound of the waves, of the men still unloading useless amounts of ammunition that could never be fired, grenades that would never be launched. At least a million of the Hu Family profits, in renmingbi, now rested at the bottom of Victoria Harbour. She dug her nails into the palm of her hand and forced herself not to appear unbothered. It would simply not do to weaken morale.

"But though most of the cargo was lost, there was something that wasn't recorded in the stocks to expect. We don't know what it was, but it's sitting in the front row. Don't think whoever did this was able to chuck it overboard, to be honest..." Fuheng took Wuxia's silence as an opportunity to speak. She fixed him with a glare, and the captain fell silent.

"I'm going to call the Mistress now." Her breathing deepened, and she watched as Fuheng paled: "You're the commanding officer at the time of the incident. You will explain to her what occurred here tonight."

She didn't hear what Fuheng had to say - but time seemed to dilate between pulling out her phone, dialing Miel's number, and hearing the line spring to life. She handed the phone over to Fuheng and stepped back as he explained the situation. As expected, Wuxia did not hear Miel voice her anger. She knew her better than to do that. Fuheng was a subordinate. To hear just how grave the situation was from him, and to let him _know_ \- even if he was their man - would be a major tactical error. Indeed, Wuxia only wanted to give Miel a chance to calm down. If she had been the first to break such news, the conversation would be over in less than a minute.

But a minute passed, then two, then three. Fuheng continued to provide information - the time, location, all parties present. Any men missing? No. Did they take anything other than the supplies? No - and he did not suspect they were taken; only thrown overboard. Estimate cost of repair? Uncertain, they have not had the time to examine all the products yet. 

The briefing was standard, and when Fuheng had answered the last question, there was a pause on the line. Then the captain nodded and handed the phone over to Wuxia without a word. She took it, and brought it to her ear - praying that her breathing would steady sooner rather than later.

"Mistress."

A slight silence pervaded the line. Wuxia fought the urge to ask if Miel could hear her.

 _“It’s to be delayed, then?”_ The voice rolled forth like a brewing storm.

“Yes.”

Silence again, then:

_“Wuxia.”_

“Yes?”

_“I want to know why.”_

The squalls of the sea were nothing compared to the thunder rolling into the receiver. It was far from any of the answers that Fuheng had given. _I want to know why from you -_ was the full intent of the sentence; _from someone that I trust; someone that has the truth_.

Wuxia took a deep breath.

“We didn’t get there in time. Someone tipped them off to our arrival. The interception was messy. They got to the guns and some of the explosives. Not the ammunition, though. More than half of the equipment had been thrown overboard.”

_“The rifles?”_

Wuxia shook her head - then realized the pointlessness of the action and almost laughed out loud. Miel’s breathing, labored, stopped her just in time:

“Gone. The grenades, Glocks, colts, carbines, assault and automatic rifles, shotguns… They dumped it all.”

A heavy silence permeated the connection. Miel was quiet for a few minutes - to a point where Wuxia brought the phone down to eye level - checking to see if the call was still active. There was simply no sound.

Then just as Wuxia was about to say something, _anything -_ a heavy crash and a scream of pain in the background pounded against her eardrum. It all ended abruptly with a gunshot. Then Miel’s voice returned, calmer - though a lot more strained than before.

_“Wuxia.”_

“Yes, Mistress?” A half-completed gulp made the syllables catch in her throat. The short question came out raspier than she expected.

 _“Change of plans. Listen close. I will not repeat myself._ ” The voice was fainter now – as if the phone had been set down. Wuxia’s ears fought to pick up the words _: “Head to the cockpit. The seller had made us an accommodation that is worth more than any munitions briefcase you’ve checked. He placed it beneath the helm. Make sure that it’s still there. Go. Now.”_

Wuxia moved immediately – pocketing the phone and striding across the porch, a chill from the harbor dragging shivers down her arms despite the casual suit. A damp deck from an early afternoon rain silenced her footfalls against the softwood. She didn’t bother circling towards the stern of the _Gypsea._ A nearby metal dock anchor served as a rightful stepping stool – and she leaped onto it before giving herself a small boost to close the distance from the dock to the gunwale.

Her leap ended when leather combat boots caught gunwale– and a brown smudge against the white acrylic shell. The grip beneath the boots kept her from toppling backward as she clasped onto the railing before gingerly heaving herself over the edge. Wuxia hoped that the phone was still secured in her pocket and the call still running. With the streetlight behind her, she crossed over benches and dipped under awnings, taking care not to trip in the dark – but almost ran into the pilot’s helm anyway.

Wuxia retrieved the phone again once she had set foot at the front of the boat and held it to her ear:

“I’m here, Miss.”

 _“In the cockpit?”_ Miel’s voice returned without delay, and significantly less strained: _"Near the dash?"_

“Yes.”

_“Good.”_ Wuxia could practically taste the cigar smoke through the line: _“Look under the dash. Do you see it?”_

Wuxia didn’t need to ask what it was she should be seeing. The large metal shell sat on the deck. Rounded at the tip, four flanges opened themselves into a large X-shaped frame, set behind what once was an aerodynamic body. Instead, the shell’s cylindrical tank was half-dissected. Wires poured from the apparatus like veins and arteries from a dying animal – and was the size of a luxury armory on its side; an armory that was at least 30 feet in length alone; dwarfing the _Gypsea_ ’s front. The circuit board lay half-exposed while others poked out from between what looked to be titanium plates. A digital atomic clock sat in the middle of the mess, its green digits shooting emerald lights at her in the dark.

Wuxia was staring at a repurposed missile.

 _“Well?”_ Miel was asking. Wuxia shifted her footing and stood.

“It’s here.” Wuxia’s eyes didn’t – _couldn’t_ \- leave the giant shell of what was surely an explosive. Its sheer size must have made it impossible to heave overboard by the party, she thought at first. But bending down; she realized that wasn’t the only reason why. The tank was welded to the deck of the ship by bolts; drilled end to end.

It made sense. It was cylindrical and laying on its side. Even with the relatively calm waters of Victoria harbor in August, should any slightly rough spot of current pass under the hull and it _would_ crush a poor sap under 80 tons of solid metal and lord knows what else.

But it was _here._ Miel’s purchase. She voiced as much into the receiver.

A small sigh met her ear.

 _“Good, good,”_ Miel was saying. Wuxia could hear her smile; though it did nothing to bring warmth to her voice which seeped with seriousness: _“Alright. You know what to do then.”_

The line clicked dead before Wuxia could find the parting words. Instead, she straightened, pulled her hair back into a bun, and called for Fuheng.

The burly man did not say much; apart from handing over a flashlight for Wuxia to further inspect the explosive. It didn’t look finished – even if she knew that it was. The exposed wires and sets of missing wings made the thing look crude, but it would get the job done once dropped. Tracers and Arduinos had been scrapped for a detonator chip; fused in a transparent box near the warhead. She thought that it was rigged to the fuel chamber itself – though there was no telling what it contained. It didn’t look aerodynamic in the slightest. But then again, it didn’t need to be. They weren’t launching it from anything. There would be no chance of interception. The time it took for the thing to make a 50-story fall to break through 18 inches of water and another feet or so of ballistic glass would not be enough for anyone to take action. In a sense; inevitable.

But it won’t be dropped, Wuxia suspected as she helped Fuheng and the men unbolt the enormous device from the floor of the deck. That was the last resort. To cross through intercontinental borders without detection, remain in flight for more than 12 hours, and sacrifice the anonymity of an operation might be too much. Miel would not do that. Not unless she was forced to. And Wuxia had never known anyone that was able to force Miel to do anything.

No, they would make some bribes, smuggle it across the border, and unload it in the agency. There had to be a weak link somewhere in HTUV’s employment to let that happen. Wuxia knows Miel would be anticipating that. She pushed back her hair. Miel intended for the site to be demolished when they made their invasion. There will be a strike team as she had promised McFord, and the explosive will carve their path. Blood will be shed on both sides, she knew. But that was fine. Perhaps even good. Win or lose, the Triad, every news station, the _world_ would be watching. And Wuxia intended to win.

The harbor wind whipped around her with a vengeance, cutting through her jacket. The night was still young for her, and Wuxia wondered when she would be back by Miel’s side again. It took an hour for her to load the bomb onto the semi with whatever salvaged remains had been recovered from the interception (twenty percent would have been an optimistic guess, she thought). In that time, she entertained thoughts that could never be reality. If, for instance, she were to destroy the agency tomorrow – before Miel could issue the orders, what would occur?

When the semi’s wheels crunched over the still damp asphalt, Wuxia wished that she could. Every operation meant the deployment of Miel’s troops to different stations specific to their job and experience. It got the work done faster, but it also meant that she was the most vulnerable the days leading up to a strike. It made Wuxia sick to think that Miel could ever be in harm’s way. She _was_ harm’s way. But Wuxia didn’t care what she was; that wasn’t in her job description.

Nevertheless, entertaining what could never be didn’t sit well with Wuxia. To say the least, it made her morose and killed her productivity. When the semi pulled away from the pier and rumbled east-ward, Wuxia finally let herself rest atop the hood of her car; a Mulsanne she had armored years ago. Extracting a cigarette from the pocket of her coat, she tried not to think about Miel the first time she caught Wuxia huffing on a pack of Marlboro. Whipping it from her hand and crushing the mostly empty little plastic box beneath her heel, Miel had barked at her for having never told her of this habit and for indulging in it. When Wuxia vowed to never touch a cigarette again, Miel had laughed and assured her that she wasn’t angry at her - only the print on that box.

 _“What does it say?” she gritted out, pointing to the ground at the accusing packaging. When Wuxia didn’t answer, she answered the question herself: “Marlboro, no? I launder at eight of the ten most profitable high-end nicotine dealerships in the world, and you smoke_ Marlboro _?”_

Wuxia had found a box of Sobranie in the glove compartment of her Mulsanne not a day after that interaction. But the habit of remaining smoke-free around Miel remained. It was simply out of respect, Wuxia told herself. Miel never brought up the subject of her smoking again.

She looked at her phone. _3:58 AM_ it read. Wuxia rose from the hood of her car and made her way to the driver’s side, flinging the door open perhaps a little harsher than necessary. She slipped in and unraveled in the familiar warmth of the interior before waking the engine. She’ll leave for Kowloon tonight. Then revisit Kai Tak for business. It’ll all be over soon, and she would be back at Miel’s side again, she told herself as she revved the vehicle and laid a strip of rubber down the dock.

* * *

August in Hong Kong brought in a nice draft from the open ends of the warehouse. As the ceiling fans did little except push around stale air from above – and the vents were clogged with dust and debris, Killian was ever-grateful for open windows and doors pushed ajar. He thought of this as he tapped furiously against the keyboard. The metal of his left hand had long since scraped off half the sigils. The _A, C_ and _E_ laid in overused disarray – their tops stripped bare and scratches adorning their cousin – the _Tab_ key. Half of the space bar was dented as well, despite Killian’s habit to use it with his right hand. In any case, the tapping of the plastic elicited a satisfying cacophony that pronounced itself in the edge of a smaller office situated in the corridors of the warehouse’s southern wing.

There was a certain meditational quality to formatting binary searches and incorporating arrays, Killian thought. Coding – a menial task to some – was as good as wine-tasting for him. He didn’t do it often – in fact, he hadn’t practiced in years. There was death in the screen every time he set forth to write a program. Lines on lines of mechanical writing equated to lives lost and fires set. Each indent was an ingredient to destruction, he knew. Yet, Killian kept typing. At the very least, writing a method to detonate Miel's fleet, if necessary, gave himself something to think about apart from the hangover that has barely eased since morning.

**##SEQ 05-786 KEY; ARDUINO SETUP AND APPLICATION**

**## ENGAGE PASSCODE – REMOTE ACTIVATION MAIN**

**def** alpha_numeric_pass(input, activating_main):  
code_TC = [[13, 324], [78, 99, 25], [523, 62, 21], [34, 58]]  
**for** i **in** range(len(meta_plate)):  
**if** activating_main == **True** :  
**return  
else**:  
**continue  
for **i **in** range(len(code_TC)):  
**if** elem **in** range(len(code_TC)):  
**if** input == code_TC[i][elem]:  
**pass  
if **input != code_TC[i][elem]:  
**return  
  
def **command_verification(verification):  
**if** verification == **"CONFIRMED"** :  
temp = input( **"Verified?"** )  
print( **"Command Received:"** , verification)  
  
**if** verification == **"DENIED"** :  
temp = input( **"Verified?"** )  
print( **"Command Received:"** , verification)  
  
**if** verification != **"CONFIRMED" or** verification != **"DENIED"** :  
**return "Invalid Command."**

 **if** __name__ == **'__main__'** : meta_plate = [ **"backlog"** , 93561, **"45-BB"** , 678, **"forward_step"** ]  
command_verification( **"DENIED"** ) 

Of course, there were a few bugs he still had to sort out – some edge cases to polish up. But all in all, it was fine. It worked fine – not the most streamlined but he didn’t have the energy to consider inefficiencies or ponder over maximizing runtime. It will have to do.

The morning ticked into the afternoon, and Killian continued to work. Someone came in at one point to dust the floors before leaving silently. Probably another of Miel’s spies. It didn’t matter. He didn’t lookup. When he finished testing the last bit of the program, it was a quarter past five. The act of picking up his briefcase (well, Lance’s borrowed briefcase) was mechanical to him, and Killian stalked out of the warehouse to meet the taxi that would be no doubt at the passing of the pier.

There was barely anyone on the airstrip today. Or yesterday, for that matter – Killian noticed. The concrete launch pad once frequented by shipping brigades and rows on rows of movers and maintenance folk making their rounds was now barren. It was slightly unnerving, to say the least. Killian could, for the first time in weeks, hear his own footsteps as he strode down the concrete pier.

He didn’t take the disappearance of the usual commotion as anything special, though. A dip in men on deck had always been a good indicator of Miel being out of the region in some way. The further she was, the less people there were where she wasn’t. Sectors of the Triad operated like a conical serpent; led by a single family – and often, a single individual from that family. Miel’s family did not pervade Killian’s knowledge beyond that it was small. Her informants, troops, hitmen, and calvary, however, were another matter.

The taxi raced over pothole after pothole on the well-traveled roads of Hong Kong, as Killian braced himself against the shotgun’s leather backing to prevent his head from meeting the roof of the cab from the constant bumping along. The driver – always the same man with a light beard that Killian judged much too unruly for an H.T.U.V agent – sat conversation-less behind the wheel. He was alright with that, though.

Not to say that the man didn’t bother him. Earlier on in their relationship, on a particularly humid day, Killian had rolled down the windows for some air. That lasted for approximately a minute; when the driver (whose name he still did not know) barked at him to close it when they reached a red light. Killian, made both irritable by the heat and eager to get a rise out of the man, refused, sitting beside him triumphant in his rebellion. That is, until the man wordlessly whipped the car into a side street at the next intersection and rammed the brake, jerking the vehicle to a park. The wheels aligned hairs from the side of the curb and Killian had watched as the man tugged the gearshift back with a rage that almost impressed him.

Then the man turned to Killian – told him that he could either roll up the window or walk the rest of the way. Killian remembered gripping the seat so tight he had been sure either the leather would have burst or another surge of electricity would run through his left arm. But it would have been scorchingly uncomfortable to walk in this weather – so he had complied; utterly fuming for the rest of the ride. He knew it was because of construction dust, pollution, smog, and all such that the man wanted the window closed. But it made him no less angry for some reason. Perhaps it was the way he looked at him; without fear – like a gutter cat that someone left for dead and was now being rehabilitated to health. It made him feel inferior and surveyed.

As they pulled into the hotel lot, Killian wondered if Miel needed a name to have someone killed simply for irking her. He stepped out of the cab and slammed the door shut – watching the cherry-red of the vehicle slip out from under the overhang of the hotel and disappear back into the traffic. He mentally shook the thought away. It didn’t matter – not at all. Hanzi came by today to pick up the thumb drive. In a day’s time, Miel would return and in a week, it would all be over.

The elevator ride back upstairs was longer than Killian felt possible and when he stepped out, the hallway felt tighter than he’d liked; as if the walls had flexed and closed in around him. Then he’ll get to the door, and knock. Even though he knew it was unlocked – and that the knocker really was a camera – he did it anyway. Something that you can’t quite shake was routine; and so Killian knocked. The same muffled “ _come in_ ” greeted him.

But the pattern in living ended there. He should’ve known something was wrong when Lance didn’t look up at all when he entered.

“You’re late.”

“For what?” Killian shrugged and tried not to let the motion bother him too much – the strain in his shoulders from both torqueing an engine and hunching over MCAD models, palpable. The tips of his fingers had been tinted a light tan with tetryl – despite running the explosive residue underwater and desperately wiping it off on a work cloth. He dully reminded himself to find a glove.

Lance had an arm slung across the back of the couch and didn’t reply. The television was on but muted. Killian never understood why he did that. Why leave something running if you aren’t going to bother paying it any attention? He found it gratuitous.

Killian stretched a little before moving to search for a cup in the kitchen cabinets. He ran it with water from the tap and let it soothe his throat – washing away the dust and grim of the warehouse collecting in his throat. The mechanics just under his skin shifted with the muscle movement, and he emptied the cup halfway before striding over to Sterling, eyes fixed on the laptop he cradled – a screen on dark mode and lines upon lines of what looked like schematics.

He didn’t catch much though – not when the agent snapped the laptop closed and craned his neck around to look at him. Big brown eyes traced over his face for a moment before Killian remembered to give him a scowl, lowering his voice in a way that was meant to threaten; as he had done before, weeks ago in Washington.

“What are you staring at?”

But he was not met by a smile. No sparkling of the eyes or careless fall of the shoulders awaited. Instead, Sterling’s smirk had been replaced by a frustrated sneer and shake of the head.

“A liar, apparently.”

Killian was, at first, too surprised to say anything. Fear came next – holding tight against his sternum. He rounded the couch as passively as he could, cautious but unstirred – until he stood in front of Lance. The air conditioning that once felt as effective as an ice cube in the Sahara Desert now swept at him like sheets of invisible hail against his skin. Killian fought the urge to cross his arms. He tried clasping them behind his back – but immediately felt too much like a chastised child and shifting the cup in his hand to achieve that was uncomfortable. Eventually, he settled on dropping his left hand to his side. Metallic digits once against danced atop the fitted fabric on his leg – the silently tapping reminding him of the surrounding silence that ensued.

_He knows what you’ve done. It’s over._

“What are you talking about?” He sighed instead, and Lance’s head snapped up at him.

“ _Oh_?” Sterling’s sneer widened into a burst of mocking laughter: “ _What am I talking about?_ How about the fact that you didn’t tell me that Miel is amassing an _army_ as we speak? How about the fact that you’re back at increasingly later times these couple of days?”

“This is… About Miel?” Killian hoped the question sounded more convincing than he felt.

“Who else?” Sterling pushed the laptop from his lap and jumped up and Killian, on instinct, took a step back. But his posture was one of exasperation – as he ran a hand down his face:

“Even now... Even now, you- Christ! What aren’t you telling me? Did you know?”

Sterling’s frustration was infectious, and Killian felt the first bouts of annoyance overcome his alarm. He knew about Miel’s forces but was particularly aggravated that Sterling does now as well, apparently. She had never been one to hide her power to those that went searching. Killian had to bet that this was Sterling’s way of asking if he is behind this influx of Miel’s militaristic stashing and recruiting. It was true. He was. But he also bet that Sterling didn’t know that. So, what comes out of his mouth in the next few seconds could determine the success of the operation. He had to paint a picture – believable not only because it was what Sterling wanted to hold to; but also infused with a handful of facts; facts that did not incriminate, in any way.

Killian took a deep breath, and forced himself to stare back at the agent:

“No, I didn’t know. I haven’t seen this for myself. You should know that Miel doesn’t tell me everything either. _‘No honor among thieves’ –_ or whatever they teach you at that lil’ secret organization of yours. What’d you say again? An army?”

“We uncovered around fifty pounds of gunpowder and a hundred and twenty ARs, not including explosives, handguns and ammunition... just off the eastern harbor. We found it all yesterday too, near one of her casino chains – where you told me she launders.” Lance began to pace before him, tense – as if ready to bolt: “That’s a coupe d’état amount of ammo. And right on _there_ – sailing in the evening. Any, late-night fisherman or… I don’t know - unfortunate coast guard - could’ve wandered in on that. It was all just, _there._ She’s done nothing to conceal it-”

Killian couldn’t help but huff out a sigh at that: “She’s a mafia mistress. Have you dealt with the triad before? They’re not like your local yakuza or even the chachiros. She’s old school. They don’t deal in the dark. Hell, the police around here know some of them by name.”

“What’s your point?” Was the response.

“Oh, c’mon, Sterling. I’m sure you can figure that out. It’s clearly an expansion ploy. She has some unfinished business. Some weaponry to transport. Some people to silence. Nothing too special. Whoever your other source may be, they’re probably over-exaggerating at seeing some of them load a submachine or pass a grenade in broad daylight. First time in Hong Kong, eh?”

The look on the agent’s face said _bullshit – that’s your play?_ But he was silent. And Killian snapped the last construction of the picture in place.

“Look, here’s how I see it. What reason have I to lie? You froze my assets, imprisoned my distributor. The yakuza’s gone. The triad is simply taking what they planned to take all along. You have established this power vacuum in the east, and now some of what you call _organized crime_ are sapping that up. That’s the thing with your agency, isn’t it? Always pushing the blame. Always at everyone’s throats except your own.”

Sterling was quiet for a moment after that – before settling back onto the couch. Killian tried not to seem so perturbed, and sat with him, closer than normal yet still a safe distance away. Safe from what, Killian didn’t bother wondering about. Harnessing his exhaustion, he bumped his knee into the agent’s in something he hoped was sufficiently disarming.

Then when Sterling was quiet for too long –he piped up:

“What’s for dinner? Or are you gonna keep accusing me of terrorism?

“I accused you of withholding information from homeland security--- not terrorism.”

“And what’s that called?”

Sterling paused, and Killian thoughtlessly traced the furrow of his brows. Not unattractive.

“Not sure. Marcy would know probably. Internal affairs stuff.”

“Not a crime then.” Killian scoffed, sitting up a little straight, the invisible weight on his sternum lessening: “Got any stir fry in the fridge?”

* * *

Tianjin held her father and her brother. She visited it at least once a year. It was as good a place to think as any.

The sun was high in the sky when Miel felt the van shudder to a stop in front of her home. Not that she ever truly considered the place her “home”. That didn’t change what she was expected to call the towering white mansion, fitted with state-of-the-art security features. Gates that lined the front of the mansion swung open upon her arrival. Hanzi had driven the procession to the manor and would be unlocking the driveway right about now. Normally it was Wuxia’s duty – but she had tasked her with something else tonight. Wuxia would be back in Hong Kong while Miel paid a visit to the Madame Hu.

The premises had been cleared as she requested. Normally there would be an assortment of people - tending to the water garden or polishing the silverware. But the house was quiet. Her footsteps echoed across the linoleum, the sunlight streaming through the geometric windows weaving across the ceiling and walls in slants and edges. The décor within though, was largely Greco-Romanesque, as was her father’s taste. Miel did not care for it, and if not for her mother, she would have smashed apart the vases and statues the moment they laid the old man in the dirt. She hated the Corinthian columns and busts of emperors, gilded paleness, and marble mantels even more now. They had more than enough houses around the country; each hoarding a certain style, timepiece, and product of the past. Tianjin was for the west. Hong Kong was for the east. The ancestral ones were located inland and traced back to the dynasties. The Hu Family kept those under the guise of constant renovation. Their purpose was for that of war and sieges; bunkers and havens in which infantry haven’t used in decades.

But Miel paid them no attention; even less now - striding through her current home with purpose. Her mother would be taking a nap in the master bedroom as she was accustomed to in the late afternoon, so she stationed her men outside. Before her father’s death, the three-storied behemoth of a building was strictly off-limits to the runners, the 49’ers and captains that ran the operations. Miel did not understand such rules. They were his men, were they not? If they would risk their life on her family’s word alone, surely, they deserved a seat at the table. So the house became another post after the funeral. Certain wings were granted to tactical meetings while the hearth became a tobacco lounge of sorts. She did not permit any gambling or girls, but drinking was fine as long as they did not damage any part of the property or invade the second and third floors. Those regions Miel insisted on keeping intact with her mother.

Miel, however, was apathetic to her mother. She posed no threat to her regime, so Miel left her well enough alone, supplying her with caretakers and the occasional book. Madame Hu was never instrumental in her upbringing and stood aside on the day her father decided that Miel needed to make way for her brother. She did not consider her mother to be an enemy or an ally – only a reminder of a past she would rather not return to. The Madame had been incessant in holding onto such trophies of her husband’s conquest even in her on-setting dementia. As she continued to lose memories of her children, at times forgetting who Miel was and falling into fits of panic, so did her obsession continue to blossom over the recreations of Adonis and era-accurate sundials. For this, Miel felt as much sympathy for her as one could feel towards vines creeping up an abandoned building. Her mother lived in the past, and Miel must tend to the future.

But Miel wasn't just here for her mother. Her footsteps brought her through the kitchen, the dining room then the back door, opening onto a patio. She crossed by the absurdly adorned baluster and into the backyard, where a colossal fountain stood in the center of the garden that surrounded it. It had run dry years ago when Miel found the trickling of water had suddenly begun to annoyed her. Now that it was barren, she found that the cluster of foxglove blooming beneath the stone structure had made its way into the pipes and base of the fountain itself – despite it being raised a good five feet above the ground by a stone column. Her father’s will had forbidden the destruction of foxgloves on any part of the Hu Family property. So the flowers stayed – weaving about and choking the already weary fountain.

But the fountain itself had seen renovations. Miel first remembered it being a crane many years ago, with its beak extended into the throat of a fox. It was based on some fable of Aesop, she recalled; except the tale hadn’t been about a fox. It had been a wolf. When she made the correction to her father, she could still remember his rage; white-hot at the masonry that constructed it. They immediately made the refund and correction; replacing the centerpiece of the fountain with two snarling foxes, haunches risen and eyes glaring at the house. It pleased her father, and Miel forgot about the whole ordeal ‘til a week later – in which a certain masonry company’s roof had reportedly caved in on five workers in the dead of night.

Miel traced a hand around the lip of the fountain, careful to avoid the foxgloves. The gravesite was near – a giant oak tree stood a yard away in the distance. It was a windless day but the branches still moved. She had never remembered them to stay still.

The old oak tree had been a family favorite growing up. Her mother begged her not to cut it down when Miel returned. She had complied and nourished it with the body of her brother after the death of her father. But they must’ve been nothing but bones at this point, and the Madame was growing old. Miel had never been one for being sentimental, so one of these days, she’ll have to cut it down. It was getting too big – its branches too unruly. Its leaves had spread across said branches too and blocked the view to the cityscape from the third story. She did not have the patience to trim it. But if she were to chop it down, it would prove quite valuable on the market. Perhaps she could even carve it into furniture of some sort and gift it towards one of the Triad families as a token for reaping’s of a good business. It certainly would clear up the yard.

Despite being still fathoms away, Miel could see the size of the trunk and not for the first time, marveled at its strength and solidity. She could’ve asked two men to wrap their arms around the thing, and still, the trunk would have about a meter of circumference left. The bark was rough and worn, sharp to the touch. Miel wondered how they would work their way through it without having the tree topple onto the metal fence that enclosed the pasture. Of course, it would be expensive.

She wanted to laugh then. Mie Shi and Mie Ri; even in death, spited her. The oak had been but meter wide until her father died; then it had expanded when he had been buried. Her brother followed, and it flourished to an abnormal size. Every time she walked near it, Miel felt as if she were to be crushed by its shadow. Even though she told herself that the dead remain dead, she couldn’t help but feel the tree weighing on her.

_It’s just a fucking tree, god damn it-_

But she never walked under it, never liked feeling its shade against her skin. She watched it from afar most of the time. It beckoned to her though, and she ignored its call. She didn’t feel in control near the oak and hated the way it hung above her – like a giant bird of prey waiting for her to look away.

So Miel, with her hip against the fountain and eyes toward the giant oak tree, thought about the dead and the dying. Her mother, her father, her brother – she listed their grievances to her one by one and thought that she would outlive them all. But it hardly mattered. A certain truth struck her that she would be the last of the Hu’s. She, who would remain childless and alone, would carry on the legacy of this great Family that’ve run the profits of gambling in countless nations.

Her brows furrowed in thought as she watched the branches of the oak rattle the leaves to and fro. Oak wasn’t native to China, so the tree stood as a symbol of power, of her clan’s influence overseas and onto bridging territories. It must have been a century-old at least, and Miel wondered how many men died in how many gang wars for this tree to stand proudly behind this house. What a waste of resources. It was good for thinking though. But as her mother had once warned her - think too much and one might just start another war.

Nevertheless, Miel kept coming back, year after year – expecting something to have changed. But it never did – not without her express order. She came back to the same white house with the Greco-Romanesque décor, her sickly mother who barely remembers her name on the best of days, the fountain being pulled apart by toxic flowers and this tree. Again and again, she returned. Sometimes after an operation; though often, before. Miel wasn’t sure why. The place reeked of death and promises that have long decayed with the bodies beneath it. But in her power, Miel could not tear it down.

People spoke behind her back, she knew that. They hypothesized as to why the house was still standing. She had slowly eradicated every memory of her father and brother over the years – all except the house. They whisper, they accuse. She wished it didn’t bother her. But her people were chatty folk. It was a small tarnish on the gears turning her empire. It will be alright.

She stood in thought. The tree continued to wave to her from across the yard.

* * *

It’s been half an hour since Lance threw together some crude substitute for ramen on the table and left for the balcony. Killian had watched as he practically shoved the cardboard cup of instant noodles at him before storming off to “get a breath of fresh air”. Apparently being in the same room as Killian now sickened him or something.

Now, it's been nearly two hours since whatever that was about, and Killian had spent thirty minutes of that time simply looking for a fork – which was, for some reason, stuck in the back of the dishwasher. Asshole.

He tossed the finished cardboard cup out and washed the fork before returning it to a more sensible place. By the second hour, Killian decided that enough was enough. The entrance to the balcony was attached to the right end of Sterling’s room, and the room opened into the kitchen and general living area without any hallways or windings. It was ridiculous, Killian thought, that Sterling insisted on remotely tinting the glass. As if that changed the fact that Killian was footsteps away to where Sterling was probably brooding outside.

It was probably boredom that led him to tap on the door to the balcony out of greeting anyway. When Sterling said nothing, Killian pushed it open lightly and stepped through.

The agent had his elbows braced against the cast-iron railing. He cleared his throat, though Sterling made no move to address him. His eyes were trained on a spot in the horizon, not that Killian could tell what. But he looked calm enough, so Killian settled in beside him, stubbornly deciding that he would not be the first to speak.

So they stood, an inch apart – gazing at the view. The sky was cloudless and the lights of the city rose in layers of color that blended together. The harbor overshadowed them all, though, and Killian watched the waves churn like tar under the moonlight. The blanket of darkness that pressed on overhead only seemed to encourage the lights around them to shine brighter, and Killian simply looked on.

“You cold?” The question came from Sterling suddenly, looking over at him. Not angry.

Killian shook his head. It was true. He wasn’t cold, not in the slightest. But for some reason, Lance seemed always (infuriatingly) concerned that he was.

“I’ve other jackets you can borrow.” He ignored him. Lance paused, then shrugged before gesturing towards the half-opened glass sliding door: “They’re just to the right of the foyer-“

“I’m not cold.”

A scoff rose in the agent's throat.

“Alright, fine.” He folded his arms over the banister: “You just look... Ah, never mind.”

He didn't pursue that end of the discussion. Killian knew what he looked like - mostly tired. He wondered if it was the hangover acting on him still because he truly didn't what he was doing here, speaking to Lance, which was as great a chore as any.

 _So, ignore him._ That was his plan. Killian didn’t owe him a conversation. He didn’t owe him _anything –_ other than perhaps third-degree burns. He didn’t care about Sterling. He didn’t _need_ Sterling.

Except, well, that wasn’t entirely true. It had only been a few hours since he had dropped the thumb drive in Hanzi’s palm, but Killian had become increasingly irritated. He wondered if it’s because his goal had been handed off to another. He hated the sense of uncertainty – like a fog of indeterminacy it had hanged over him with every furrow of the brows, every pointed phrase. He wondered if Sterling had noticed. He must have, though Killian can’t say he particularly cared. If Sterling wanted a friend, he should have brought along Beckett for all this.

“It’s a beautiful night, hm?” Sterling was saying. Killian looked to him – Lance Sterling, elbows propped against the balcony. He was saying something – something about the smell of the harbor from here. No. Not smell. _Sound._ It didn’t matter. None of it mattered.

“It’s always so loud during the day. Cars. People. And those trolleys that kick up dust wherever you go. We’re pretty high up but it still gets to you if you leave the windows open for too long, ya know?” Sterling rambled on, then turned to him.

Killian fixed him with a blank stare before the tone of the agent's voice shifted into a prompt for dialogue: “Is it any better on the airstrip? I think you mentioned…the other night – the noise? The commotion from cargo being dropped off?”

He calls it _“the other night”_ now, Killian noted. Of course _Lance Sterling_ would never let him forget half-assed words over coupes of champagne; would never let him live that down. A scowl and biting words followed before Killian could reign back the frustration bridled with an ever-present hangover.

“Yes, _noise,_ ” He faked a smile and delighted in the way that Sterling’s eyes filled with something akin to hope: “Speaking of _noise_ – do you ever shut up? If so, could you?”

His smirk widened when Lance’s expression soured, his shoulders tensing as if preparing to throw Killian over the balcony.

“Look man, I’m just trying to lighten the mood – “

“Well, don’t.” Killian cut him off, and turned away from him – or tried to, as he was seized by the shoulder by the same hand that had halted him in his path earlier in the day.

“What the _hell,_ McFord?” Sterling growled at him, his lips pulled into a snarl. Killian chest rose to receive the anger in his voice, then immediately froze when Sterling let his shoulder go in a light push:

“What’s this? What’s going on here? You were practically _clinging_ to me a few days ago and now we’re just gonna communicate in insults? You good?”

“I’m _fine,_ ” he heard himself return. Sterling didn’t look convinced in the slightest, so he sighed: “What do you want?”

“A conversation.”

“A conversation?”

“Yeah.” Sterling fixed him with a glance that said _and what about it?_ Killian shrugged.

“I don’t think that’ll be beneficial for either of us.” He offered as a last act of refute. Sterling had the audacity to give a light chuckle:

“Look, we gave you a room, board, food, hell, a job even – and you can’t hold a conversation? C’mon Kills.”

He rapped the fingers of his left hand along the length of the banister, eliciting a pointed, sharp ringing of metal on metal.

“You also gave me this remember?”

“Well, technically, Walter gave you that.” Came the quip. Sterling was staring at him, unabashedly – with the audacity to give him a _grin:_ “You told him you liked it though, right?”

Killian had no idea what to say. And Sterling, that _bastard,_ knew of course.

He patted Killian lightly on the shoulder.

“Wait here.” Another smile: “I wanna show you something.”

He huffed out a sarcastic snort of laughter as Lance slipped back into the room, wondering where would he even go? Unless Killian were to chuck himself over the balcony, he’s stuck here. Though chucking himself over the balcony might not be such a bad idea. Whatever to escape Sterling’s pointless pursuit for a _conversation_ -

The door slid open a few seconds later and the agent emerged again; except now he was carrying what looked like a frisbee wrapped in paper. He stepped forward as Killian raised a brow at the object.

Then Sterling pinched the center of the frisbee and tugged it. Killian fought the urge to lean away as the thing began to gain volume before forming an upside-down basket of paper and thin wires that ran from top to bottom. It was hollow – with a metallic rim at the base that crisscrossed in the center, forming what looked like a tiny cup-holder, or the compartment of a hot-air balloon.

“What-“

“It’s a lantern.” Sterling smiled at him, as Killian glanced from him back to the paper contraption. It _did_ look like a lantern now that he mentioned it. It was not until Sterling pushed it towards him that Killian froze.

“C’mon. It won't kill you. Promise.” The agent urged, a slight furrow to his brows – but not of aggravation or concern. It was a small askance, a light “ _trust me_ ”. Killian, with a frown, took the lantern with his right hand. The wire-woven base was still warm where Sterling had been holding it: 

“Right, okay… I know you didn’t ask, and I know you don’t really care but - while you were off building that who-knows-what for that she-demon, I thought I would, uh…” Sterling stopped, then shook his head in what looked like disbelief or incredulity to Killian. He waited as Lance took a deep breath while gesturing to the lantern in his hand.

“They call it a Kong Ming Deng. Or sky lantern, paper lantern. You, uh, light a candle and stick it in that little metal rim and it lifts itself up.” Sterling cleared his throat, then reached into the pocket of his jacket – withdrawing a candle and a lighter. Killian stared at him as Sterling gave him a bright-eyed grin, almost child-like:

“I thought you’ll like it. It’s – ah, pretty neat.”

Killian glanced from the candle and lighter in Sterling’s hand then back to the lantern in his own, unsure if it was real, if _any_ of this was real. It felt real. It looked real. But so do dreams or nightmares. He was suddenly struck by a ridiculous shame. He’d assumed that Sterling didn’t think about him when he wasn’t around – goodness knows that Killian didn’t; or tried not to.

But here Sterling was, all the same, a hopelessly hopeful expression on his face, bringing yet another peace offering to himself. It embarrassed Killian because he would never have thought to do the same. It embarrassed him because, he found it pointless and stupid and a tiny, tiny pinch of dirt tossed in the chasm that was their history. Yet it stirred him in a certain way, even after saying all that. Such a stupid, little gesture. Why? Because he could, and that awfully embarrassing _hope_ Lance was so fond of having.

But at the same time, Killian found it all very ironic as well. He’s been pursuing the death of every H.T.U.V personnel for _so long_ – with a special focus on the agent that drove the joy from his person. Yet now his chase was over because Sterling was here. Killian looked down at the lantern, then toward the city skyline beyond. An absurd thought rose to his mind. It slipped out before he could stop himself:

“Are you sure this isn’t prohibited?” He cleared his throat when the words got caught on the way out, then shifted the lantern in his grip pointedly: “Won’t it get stuck in the landline wires, or drop on someone? And you’re lighting it, right? What if it catches something on fire or…”

He didn’t get to finish that thought. Sterling had erupted into a burst of laughter, doubling over against the balcony rails in guffaws. Killian merely stared at him as if he’d lost his mind – which he was convinced that the agent had. Sterling’s chuckles bounced through the night; laughing until he was wheezing – and then gasping for air when the wheezes ended.

Killian, a little scared, stood statue-still as Sterling straightened, a dopey grin that was disgustingly genuine. Through the hazy filter that was the hangover and lack of sleep, indignation still prevailed, when he realized that the laughter had been at his expense:

“What?”

“Oh my god – you…” Another wheeze broke out as Lance ran a hand through his hair at the question and fixed Killian with eyes that screamed indulgence: “Kills, let’s see…uh…You - who would’ve committed genocide and terroristic acts of violence – are concerned about public safety regulations?”

 _Oh._ He looked at Sterling in horror and hadn’t even realized that he’d began backing away, as if from a bomb; until Sterling’s smile dropped a little:

“Hey, it’s fine! Sorry, I’m not laughing _at_ you, it’s just…Kinda crazy huh?” He supplied awkwardly.

Killian said nothing. What was there to say? That was a lie. He was most _certainly_ laughing at him. Yet Killian said nothing as Sterling flicked the lighter on, surprised to realize that the joke on himself didn't bother him too much at all. He wondered if it would be the case if someone other than Sterling had been laughing as the candle was lit. Then Sterling gave him another smile and Killian stared at him until he felt the lantern lift from his hand. Fluffing up the paper a little, Sterling dropped the candle in the holster and the flame danced before Killian’s eyes – the light it cast making shadows shift over the frame. He wondered why the paper wasn’t on fire.

“Here, you want to hold it?”

Sterling was holding it out to him, gingerly. Killian took the lantern and raised it to eye-level. It tugged itself upward in his hold, the heated air inflating the lantern until the paper was fully stretched about the frame.

He glanced up at Sterling, who had inched a little closer.

“You want me to just-?” He nodded at the balcony. Sterling shrugged; a gesture ever paired with a smile. That kid Walter must’ve really been infectious.

“Yeah. Go ahead.”

Something within him screamed that none of this made sense – that he should just walk away now and leave the lantern be. Or better yet, pluck the candle out of its socket and toss it at Sterling before crushing the little contraption underfoot. It was a stupid bid for something Killian did not at all understand. Sterling inviting him here as if they were in the process of a _courtship,_ as if he actually enjoyed his presence… It made no sense to Killian, and if he didn’t know any better, he would’ve let it threaten his peace of mind.

But the more logical part of him prevailed. Sterling, in all honesty, was a dead man walking. Miel would fulfill her side of the bargain as she always had, and Killian need not entertain this charade any longer. He didn’t need to worry about getting attached. So what harm could be done from striding in beat to Sterling’s whims and wishes for now?

Killian held on to this notion as he walked over to the edge of the balcony – noting the final warmth of the candle flame against his skin before he let go of the lantern. It drifted toward the harbour front, upwards - first unsteadily. Then the flow of the wind about it evened out and the lantern slowly climbed into the sky – a smidge of light against the darkness of the night.

“It’s pretty.” Lance said beside him. Killian had to agree, it _was_ pretty. The lantern swayed softly in the night breeze and got smaller and smaller by the second. He wondered where it would end up, how long it would last and how high it would soar. He wondered if it would be undone by the wind or a seagull, a high-rising telephone pole or the side of a building. How brief could such a flimsy little thing last in one of the most populated cities of the world? An hour? Three? Half a day? He didn’t bet on it lasting the night.

“Where did you get it?” He asked instead. Sterling shrugged; something he seemed to do a lot around him, Killian noted.

“Some small shop in the market.” He gestured toward the streets below them, the commotion of traffic far below rising to meet the wave of his hand.

“Oh.” Killian responded. It sounded lame, even to himself and he made do by asking no more questions – arms held against the railing instead, contentedly watching the speck in the sky where the lantern had been. It was much too far away now to discern from the streetlamps, billboards, and apartment lights on the horizon. He dropped his eyes to the harbor after a bit and said nothing, grateful that Sterling was silent as well.

The minutes passed, and the silence stretched into the night. The occasional honk from passing cars below, some laughter from pedestrians, and general chatter filled the gaps. But eventually, when Sterling continued to lean against the railing with him, maintaining his peace, Killian felt a certain familiar restlessness creeping into his chest and pounding against his sternum. He looked to Sterling and his own eyes had begun trace the collar of the agent's dress shirt, down to the silver of the buckle against the fabric of his dress pants. His shoes were polished as well, somehow. Killian sure as hell hadn’t seen him polish them himself, ever. Were they always so shiny?

A state of abject horror overcame him when Killian realized what he was doing. But for some reason he didn’t move, eyes glued to the spot where Sterling’s cheekbone dipped to form a jawline that could’ve cut glass. The agent was quiet though. Why was he so quiet? Because Killian had expressed utter disdain for his speech on multiple occasions? Well, why had he?

Killian wondered if he really didn’t like it when Sterling, well, did anything at all – spoke, talked, walked, breathed. Or did he simply feel as if he should dislike it? The man was a murderer that hid behind words like “honor”, “trust”, “unity” and “valor”. He thought himself a knight though failed so spectacularly in his "protection of everyone". He was prideful and cared not who he used his skill set for or on; as long as he was applauded for it afterward. Killian have met men like him, have _killed_ men like him for less. But then again, anything was relatively “less” compared to what Sterling took from him.

Yet here he was, all the same, wondering just how sharp those cheekbones would be to the touch. Sterling, for some insane reason (or perhaps no reason at all), had been more than a courteous host to him – not that Killian would ever admit it. He could think it though, by god he could think it. He wondered if Lance could ever think of _him_ that way. More than just a guest – only the way that he was envisioning him now.

Then Sterling began to turn and Killian realized that he had been leaning and was much too close for the either of them. But backing away would’ve been as clear a confirmation as any that he had been staring at Sterling and was red-faced for doing so as well. He was, but Sterling didn’t need to know that.

Lance was staring at him now, and Killian was so close he knew that the agent could feel his breathing. He wanted to pull away, but Killian felt frozen in place; as if every cell had turned to stone. He refused to believe it was out of fear. He simply didn’t know what to do. If he jumped back, Killian knew he would have to explain himself. If he stayed where he was, Lance would step back eventually and he would have to explain himself. He resorted to staying in place, peering at the individual lashes framing Sterling’s eyes.

“Uhh…Kills? What are you doing?”

* * *

_How is he so close? When did he get so damn close?_

Lance didn’t move though – out of confusion and perhaps a healthy dose of stubbornness as well. After all, why should he? What’s he gonna do – bite Lance’s ear off? He doubts it. Whatever it was, Lance wasn’t afraid of the guy – not after seeing what he was like, drunk off his arse on _champagne_ of all the alcohols. At such proximity, the slight height advantage he had on him was also evident.

But that didn’t mean he wasn’t particularly concerned at the implications of Killian getting in his face. The man could throw a nasty left hook; he’ll give him that. So Lance decided to give him a fair bit of warning – at least test the waters a little, just in case:

“Uhh…Kills? What are you doing?”

Lance watched as a look of pure uncertainty overcame the other’s features. If they hadn’t been so close – Lance would’ve missed the way that the air was displaced by Killian's quickened breathing. Then Killian moved, tilting his head to the side and before Lance could ask him again, could turn to meet his movement – a softness had pressed itself against the side of his face.

Killian lingered for a second, unmoving and just… _there_ , his hands clasped behind his back, his chest brushing against Lance’s, and Lance – Lance could _feel_ his heartbeats through the fabric, thrumming like a drum. The pressure against his cheek stayed put for a bit, and Lance froze – afraid to move, to startle Killian. So he just stood there, staring straight ahead like a statue; unable to even look towards his right and confirm that this was real.

Then after the second that felt like an hour, the softness lifted from his cheek and Killian straightened again. He turned back to the balcony rails as if Lance had never been there - as if what just happened was only a figment of the agent’s imagination. Lance stared at him as if seeing a ghost. Killian didn’t move.

_He kissed me._

Lance willed him to say something, _anything._ He didn’t understand. Killian _kissed_ him. It was a humble little thing too. A peck on the cheek, almost a “thank you” if he didn’t know any better. It’s _Killian._ Lance would have thought him more probable of attempting to toss him over the side of the balcony then-

“What?” Killian had turned around and was staring at him.

He felt himself lift a hand, finger extended and blurted:

“You…Why…” Lance drew in a sharp breath: “You kissed me.”

He expected Killian to chuckle, or even fix him with a glare. But he simply stared back, as if waiting for judgment.

“I did.”

He didn’t mean to lose it at that. Lance dragged Killian into him before he could stop himself – an embrace that was meant to overwhelm and crush. Killian stiffened against him and for a second, Lance thought that he was trying to push away from the hug. He dropped his arms from Killian’s back immediately.

“Sorry, sorry.” Lance heard himself stammer, dropping his gaze. He realized too late that Killian’s arms had not moved from his waist: “I didn’t mean to-“

“Sterling – don’t.” And Lance looked up – brown eyes meeting icy blue; blue that held no compassion, no _love._ Killian was looking at him like how he imagined a man dying of thirst looked at a waterfall.

The dark circles beneath his eyes were always so pronounced, and they glared out at him now. Lance realized now with Killian so close that the man was simply tired. Tired of fighting, tired of working, likely tired of everything that kept him moving after that day in Kyrgyzstan. Lance knew how it felt. He knew it to no end. The peck on the cheek had simply been a calling card. Killian wouldn’t have asked him of this – of any of it – if Lance hadn’t pushed him to a breaking point.

It wasn’t a _don’t_ of cessation. It was a _don’t_ as in _don’t ruin this,_ Lance thought. But this wasn’t healthy. It wasn’t _right._ It wasn’t that Lance didn’t want him. He would not admit it to anyone alive but he admired Killian, even on that day atop the North Sea amidst all the chaos. Killian – who gave him one hell of a fight, who in his entirety, refused to die in spirit and body; was now in his arms, asking of Lance the one thing he wished that he could provide without guilt.

But the truth was, Lance couldn’t do it. Marcy’s conversation rang his skull every time he looked at Killian, and it broke his heart to think that Killian would find it necessary to resort to this. As a tactic, as a front – whatever it was, Lance was sad to say that he doubted Killian’s sincerity, but he doubted it nonetheless. Something had clicked for him today, but better sooner rather than later.

So before Lance could change his mind, he gave Killian a kiss on the forehead paired with a squeeze on the shoulder and stepped back. It was as much a silent confirmation as it was an act of affection. _I feel the same way –_ it said – _but not now, not while we’re here_. Lance couldn't bring himself to say it out loud. He did not need the temptation, to say the least.

Killian didn’t look up for the longest time, but when he did – it seemed to be a look of understanding.

“Alright,” Lance heard him say simply, then nod and he, again, wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the gesture – as if they were business partners and haven’t just bared their souls for one another to tear apart with a word.

Instead, he cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck:

“I, um,” Lance sighed at him, before finally picking up the last of his courage: “You… I mean, I don’t think we should do this right now. No, wait - that’s vague. I only meant – well, Joy wouldn’t approve, and it’ll just interfere with the mission. But I really want this to…want us to-”

“No, it’s fine. I- I understand.” Killian shifted his weight and Lance watched as he shook his head. He was smiling at the ground, but there was a slight sadness to his voice when he spoke: “It would’ve never lasted anyway.”

Killian slipped past him before Lance could utter another word. He heard the door to the room swish open into the hallway.

Regret filled Lance Sterling before it could drop shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I checked my last update and saw that I planned on finishing chapter 12 by November 28th??? LOL Was I on Cocaine???
> 
> C'mon. I wasn't gonna go through a semester of coding without shoving in some random lists and functions in the will smith pigeon movie fanfiction for that added dash of AuTheNtiCiTY. I sure hope none of my audience encompasses coders. That was most certainly...pseudocode with gaps. 
> 
> It's 4:55am and Killian's not the only one that's tired. See y'all in a week. Or two days, depending. :))) Thank you for sponsoring my gradual decline in sanity! stay tuned for more Words is what my brain is trying to say.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Now, I gotta address some things or I'll implode: 
> 
> 1) SiD is seriously an Underrated™ movie with a most Underrated™ villain that had way too little screentime. So we gotta fix that my dudes. :)
> 
> 2) I'm having a field day with researching for this fic. I absolutely adore all the tech seen in the movie and engineering is my chosen career path so writing this is just chicken soup for the soul! :)
> 
> 3) Bird puns are now a part of my search history - as well as "the Geneva Conventions", "undulator" and "Kyrgyzstan natural resources" for the next couple of chapters ;)
> 
> Thanks again for the read! Comments and kudos are always appreciated <3 xox


End file.
